Broken Wings

Part Fourteen - T-t-trouble

Chapter Fourteen

He'd have to order take out. All attempts to make a meal from her from scratch had apparently failed before Julia got home. Aaron looked at the effort in front of him...he'd burned mashed potato. The internet informed him that it was impossible, but he'd done it.

Not through bad cooking...he had stepped into his office to answer a few emails...and had neglected the potatoes simmering on the stove. Disaster. Glancing at the clock, he wondered if he could make another batch. It was still early; he couldn't remember the last time he was home that early.

He'd barely peeled four potatoes when the door to the apartment was flung open, and Julia barged in. Without glancing in his direction, head very low, she crossed the hallway and entered the corridor that led to her room.

Aaron grimaced then looked at the half made shepherd's pie...his home favourite, and the recipe his mother had sent him. An upset woman...and he presumed she was upset, really needed a little time. So he'd complete the meal...then maybe seek her out.

Julia fell face down onto the bed and tried to breath, tried to calm her over beating heart, adrenaline and pain surged through her system and she wasn't sure she'd ever get out of the bed again. Closing her eyes she stifled the sobs, wanting with all her heart to throw her phone against the wall...but then she'd never be able to speak to her friends...or negotiate the streets of NYC without it.

Struggling again to defeat her anxiety, she took several deep breaths. She'd avoided her mother, the incessant phone calls, deleted the messages, and it had been the BBC app, sat on the metro, cutting across the Hudson that brought her to her knees.

Even though she'd only read it once, the words seemed ingrained into her brain.

The funeral of Edward Clarkson, formally of the Clarkson Hedge Fund Corp, occurred today in a private family only ceremony in the St Mark's church and cemetery, Chelsea. The former business mogul, well known Conservative donator and entrepreneur passed away in prison last month where he was serving a thirteen year sentence for historic abuse. Clarkson had been in the process of appealing against the sentence after he claimed new evidence had come to light. His family will decide whether they want to persist with the appeal and clear his name.

She felt sick...her family were going with an appeal? Appealing against the conviction of what he did to her? What evidence could he possibly have unearthed against her case? And who would defend that bullshit? She had told the truth...there was no alternative evidence, no other version of events. He DID it, every bit of it, she knew he had. She hadn't lied. Yet even from beyond the grave, he was controlling her life. She hated him, hated him more than anything else.

The tears were rolling down her cheeks, uncontrollably, and she hated that he could hurt her so easily. That after all these years his name still crucified her, swept her back to the time when she was at unable to get away from her charismatic and popular uncle. No one saw him as she did, and no one had believed her. Maybe they never had.

"Hey?"

Her door opened a crack, and she could feel a pair of eyes on her, but she wasn't ready to face Aaron, with his knowing eyes and friendly ways. He saw too much, he'd made her talk, to open up. She couldn't do that now.

"I'm a little worried, Julia." When she still didn't move from her place face down on the bed, he added, "well I've made dinner...my favourite from home. I can put yours in the fridge...just let me know if you need anything?"