Chapter 18 Dante #3
For a moment, he seems to forget where he is.
His eyes, dulled by grief and exhaustion, hold mine with a strange fragility.
There’s sinking sadness there, layered with the faint shimmer of fear.
His lower lip trembles before he catches it between his teeth, chewing it raw, the skin turning white from pressure.
It makes me wonder how long he can hold it together before he breaks.
“Help me understand,” I repeat, keeping my tone low, coaxing. “Just a bit of your time. You don’t deserve to be alone in this tragedy.”
The line lands like a soft touch against his armor.
His features waver, the tension loosening just enough for weariness to slip through.
The anger in his face fades into something defeated, resigned.
He exhales sharply, a man giving in not because he trusts me, but because he’s tired of fighting the ghosts that never leave him.
“This isn’t a conversation for coffee,” he mutters at last, raking a hand through his short, light-brown hair. “Let’s go to my place. It’s fifteen minutes from here.”
He turns abruptly, nodding down a narrow side street slick with rain.
The reflection of passing headlights gleams across his wet coat as he walks ahead, shoulders hunched against the drizzle.
I fall into step behind him, the air between us humming with something volatile—part anticipation, part dread.
A low vibration slices through the rhythm of our footsteps. I slide my hand into my pocket and draw out the phone. Its screen bursts to life, glowing sharply.
Jason.
For several seconds, I simply stare at his name, frozen and blank, while the rain drums lightly against my knuckles. Then, I press my thumb firmly against the button. The call disappears, the tone fading into silence.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and continue walking, while millions of thoughts scream inside my head.
The apartment sits tucked away on one of London’s quieter streets, a place that seems to pulse to a different rhythm than the relentless city outside. The building itself is brick, weathered by decades of rain and wind, yet carrying a dignity that refuses to yield to time.
Inside, warmth hums quietly through every corner.
Wide windows frame the wet street below, reflecting the city’s muted golds and reds in liquid streaks along the slick pavement.
The air carries the scent of rain clinging to stone, polished wood, and a faint trace of cologne that lingers like a ghost in the hallway.
“Sorry for the mess,” Bennett calls over his shoulder as he moves further into the apartment. “I don’t have guests often. Or ever.”
My eyes roam across the room. The space feels like a living intersection of old London charm and modern calm intertwined—high ceilings edged with ornate cornices, a marble fireplace long cold, shelves overflowing with books and vinyl instead of ornaments.
Soft light spills from brass lamps, casting muted shadows over sage-green and smoke-gray furniture.
A few T-shirts lie haphazardly across the couch, the only humanizing touch in a room otherwise curated with precise quietness. Everything else is immaculate: no empty pizza boxes, no scattered dishes, no lingering staleness. Just a perfect apartment, smelling faintly of careful solitude.
“It’s fine,” I reply, letting my gaze drift across the space, searching for some trace of Estella or his brother, some detail that might hint at the lives that once brushed against his.
I settle onto the couch as he returns, two glasses in one hand, the other gripping an almost-finished bottle of scotch.
It’s clear how meticulously he’s tried to drown out his thoughts, how carefully he’s constructed this space of control and order.
The glasses meet the coffee table with a delicate clink, sharp and distinct in the quiet room.
He uncorks the bottle and pours amber liquid into each glass, the splash of the scotch echoing while the low hum of the refrigerator threads through the background.
He clears his throat, louder than necessary, pouring the drink to the brink.
I resist the impulse to ask if he always drinks scotch as if it were water.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. His eyes flick up at me, a small gleam of anxiety betraying his nerves.
He nods, almost frantically, and sets the bottle on the coffee table.
I can already sense that this will not be enough for him, that he will need far more if he hopes to withstand the storm set to erupt within him tonight.
He sinks into the couch across from me, the cushions sighing beneath his weight. Without hesitation, he grabs his glass and downs half of it in one fierce gulp. The amber liquid splashes past his lips, sliding down his chin and staining his white shirt, but he doesn’t even flinch.
I watch him without a word, my eyes widening just enough to betray my focus. I cannot tell whether the current moving through him is the old, persistent ache that has never left his heart, or something darker and heavier—something that has been quietly brewing there for years.
“You okay, professor?” I ask, tilting my head, trying to catch his expression.
He wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, nodding faintly. “I’ll manage,” he mutters. “What do you want to know?”
Everything. “Tell me about your brother, William.”
Bennett exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping as he leans back against the couch. “My brother was a good man. Stupid, but good.”
“He was a teacher, right? From what I’ve gathered, a good one. Did he ever think about leaving the village, pursuing his career somewhere else?”
A humorless chuckle shakes his chest. “No, not at first. I was the one with ambitions, not him. William was the type of man who lived by his routine. It didn’t matter how dull it was when it was safe.
It was his way of keeping the world in order.
Talking him into leaving that shithole was nearly impossible. ”
“But eventually, he agreed?”
He nods, his gaze distant. “Yeah. He planned to finish the school term and then come with me. Not long before we talked about it, he was invited to The National Linguistics Olympiad. He and—”
He cuts himself off, pressing a hand over his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut, the words locked behind his teeth.
“And Iris?” I probe.
“Yes,” he says, his tone a shade softer, as though he’s glad I’ve spoken a curse on his behalf. “He was happy about it. Happier than I’d seen him in years. He didn’t want to leave his daughter behind, so he decided to take her with them.”
“But before that could happen, she died,” I say quietly.
Bennett doesn’t answer. He just reaches for his glass and drains what’s left. The burn must be vicious. I can see it in the grimace that twists across his face as he slams the empty glass onto the coffee table.
Then he points at mine. “You’re not drinking,” he observes. “Trust me when I say you should. It’s only going to get worse.”
Without waiting for a response, he pushes himself to his feet. His hands smooth over his clothes out of habit, the motion automatic, almost desperate. “I think I still have something,” he murmurs as he moves toward the next room. “They’re not in perfect condition, but you’ll understand anyway.”
While he rummages through drawers and shelves, I lift my glass and take a small sip. The scotch bites hard at first, a burn that blooms across my tongue before trailing heat down my throat, steadying me.
“Not much,” Bennett says from behind me, “but it’s something.”
When I turn, he’s holding a mid-sized, worn photo album, trembling slightly as his fingers curl around it. He lowers himself back onto the couch, his face a blend of reverence and bitterness.
“It’s like a fucking curse,” he mumbles.
“My brother loved taking pictures. Said they held memories. Our mother had Alzheimer’s, and the idiot thought taking photos would help her remember.
Instead, it only made things worse. She’d look at them and panic.
Said we weren’t her sons, that we were frauds pretending to be them, trying to use her, exploit her. ”
The words spill out so fast that by the end, he stumbles over them, curses slipping through his teeth as his lip twitches, anger flaring uncontrollably.
This goddamn family, it seems, was destined to suffer.
He laughs softly, but the sound fractures halfway through, fading into silence thick enough to choke on. Bennett sets the leather-bound photo album on the table between us, its edges frayed, the cover marred with burn marks and scratches. He turns it toward us both, exposing its contents.
My eyes trace every imperfection: the scorched corners, the faded leather, even the faint scotch marks etched into some of the pages. He had tried very hard to erase these memories, but something stopped him.
He points to the first photo, where William stands in his classroom, wearing a suit and a smile that almost disappears behind his beard.
“This was the day,” Bennett says, tapping his fingers against the picture.
“The day she started attending his classes. I wish I had a time machine to go back and kill her before she had the chance to poison him.”
“Poison him?” I question.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes the album closer to me, his fingers brushing over the next pictures. I follow the movement with my eyes, absorbing each image.
The first pages seem innocuous: William in the classroom, alone, with other teachers, or with students. Their expressions are carefree, eyes bright with hope and promise. A clawing sensation coils in my gut, writhing with unease, sending shivers that travel up my spine.
Something is off.
In school photos, everyone is supposed to look happy, yet the smiles in these pictures feel forced, the cheer stretched thin over something far darker. The brightness of the plastic grins presses against me, almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Especially William.