Before his "diagnosis," Jonathan had severe mysophobia. He used to scrub his hands raw twenty times a day. Wouldn't tolerate a speck of dust on his designer suits. Yet for Valerie, he had endured this squalor for five years.
Five years.
I had been played like a fiddle, dancing to his tune while he perfected his performance.
I wanted to cut his chest open just to see if his heart was flesh or stone.
When I didn't answer, he hung his head.
"Hazel, do you hate me now?" He gripped the armrest, veins bulging from the feigned effort. "You should go. A burden like me... I'm just dragging you down. Leave me here to rot."
I didn't speak. I righted the wheelchair and hoisted him into it, then turned to the sink, wrung out a warm towel, and wiped his face and hands. The movements were mechanical—a routine etched into my bones over five agonizing years.
Suddenly, he caught my wrist. His eyes fixed on the fresh cut on my palm.
"How did this happen? Who hurt you?"
The concern looked so real. Bile rose in my throat.
"Someone who looks exactly like you," I whispered, staring straight into his eyes. "At the Starlight Club."
Jonathan's jaw tightened.