Chapter 4: Alex
Isabella's POV
I pushed open the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway, and there he was.
Taller than I'd expected. Broader. Standing at the top of the stairs with his back straight and his hands at his sides, and his gaze locking onto me at the sound of the door—
"Alex—"
His eyes went past me.
Straight to Richard.
"How could you," Alex said. His voice was low. Controlled. "How could you bring her into that room."
"Alex—" I tried to get him to glance at me.
"That was Mom's room!" He didn't raise his voice. That was somehow worse.
"You made it into—and now you just—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Do you have any idea how disgusting this is? What you're doing?"
"Come to the study," Richard said. "We need to talk about certain matters in private."
As soon as the study door clicked shut, Alex’s gaze settled on Richard, undisguised contempt glinting in his eyes.
"Say it out loud. Say what you're doing. Don't drag me into a room and close the door like you have something to be ashamed of."
I reached over and found Richard's waist and pinched.
Hard.
He made a very small sound.
Alex stared.
"Ricky." My voice came out low and steady, which was impressive given how much I wanted to shake him. "What did you do to my son."
"Bella—"
I pinched harder. "What did you do to him. He's nineteen years old. He talks like—" I stopped. Pinched again. "You raised him to be like this? This is your fault."
"Yes," Richard said, very quietly.
"Don't just yes me. That's not good enough." I let go of his waist. My hand was shaking.
Alex had gone completely still.
I turned to face him. Fully, directly, the way I used to when he was little and I needed him to know I was serious.
"Alex." My voice softened. "Do you remember the bracelet?"
His hand moved—involuntary, just a fraction—toward his wrist.
"I made it for your fifth birthday," I said. "The pattern took me three days. You kept trying to help and you kept dropping the wire, and you cried the second time because you thought you'd ruined it, and I told you—"
"Anyone could know that," he said. Flat. Automatic. Like he'd rehearsed it.
"Maybe." I looked at him steadily.
"Do you remember July? When you were four. You were angry at Daddy for taking up too much of my time."
A pause. "You told me you were going to take me and the twins and leave. You were going to make money and take care of all of us."
Something moved in his face. Just for a second.
"You had my skirt in your fist," I said. "I had the babies in my arms. We were actually walking toward the door."
I let that sit. "Your father came home early. He almost caught us. I told him we were just going for a walk."
Alex stared at me.
I watched him breathe.
Please, I thought. Please, baby. I know this is impossible. I know it doesn't make sense. But I'm standing right here.
"That's not—" he started.
"I know," I said. "I know it's not enough." I reached up and pulled a single strand of hair free, and I held it out to him. "So take this. Find a lab you trust. Don't tell your father, don't tell anyone. Get the results and then decide."
He looked at the hair in my hand.
He looked at my face.
"I'll be here," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hand was trembling when he reached out and took it.
He didn't say anything. He turned and walked away, down the stairs, out of sight.
I listened to his footsteps until I couldn't hear them anymore.
Then I turned back to Richard.
"Sit down," I said.
"Bella—"
"Sit down."
He sat.
I pulled the chair from the desk and sat across from him, and I looked at my husband.
"You chose looking for a dead woman," I said, "over raising your living children."
"Yes."
"You chose that."
"Yes." His voice was barely audible. "I know what I did."
"Do you?" I stood up. I couldn't sit still anymore. "Do you actually understand what that means? What you took from them?"
"I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing and think about it." I pressed my hands flat on the desk and leaned toward him.
"Alex is angry at everything. He's angry at you, he's angry at me, he's angry at the world. That's not just grief. That's a kid who grew up without anyone to show him how to handle it."
I stopped. Breathed.
"What about Olivia and Matthew?" I asked. "Tell me about them."
Richard opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"That's..." He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's a long story."
"Of course it is." I stared at him. "Richard."
"Bella—"
"Don't 'Bella' me. Just talk."
He tried. He really did.
But every sentence came out clipped and halting and I could see it on his face—the guilt, the not-knowing-where-to-start, the years of distance he didn't know how to compress into words.
He managed fragments. Impressions. Half-explanations that trailed off into silence.
It was enough to tell me the situation was bad.
I held up a hand and cut him off mid-sentence. "Stop."
He stopped.
I pushed back from the desk and stood up. "I want everything. Report cards, school records, photos—whatever the staff has on file. Medical records if there are any. I want to see it all."
He blinked. "Right now?"
I looked at him. "Yes, right now. Go find it."
He went.
It took him twenty minutes.
He came back with two staff members carrying actual folders.
He set them on the desk in a stack that was taller than I expected.
I looked at the stack. Then I looked at him.
"Thank you," I said. "Now get out."
"Bella—"
"I mean it." I pulled the first folder toward me. "I need a quiet space to get through all of this."
He hesitated in the doorway, and I could feel him wanting to say something—wanting to stay.
"Go," I said, without looking up.
He went.
I heard the door click shut behind him. I opened the first folder, and started to read.
Well, this is going to be a long night.
