The melody of Tanya's broken heart found echo within the hollows and cracks of his wretched soul. The constraints of immateriality forbid the contact he craved at that moment, for the need to acknowledge her pain was strong and undeniable. The sincerity of her longing was humbling, the lengths to which she was willingly to go, almost scaring. Never had he guessed the depth of her feelings for him, and even if he had, would it have made a difference? Would it have prevented him from turning to drugs when his baby girl died?
For she had died, she hadn't been murdered—Tanya had lied, Edward was sure of it. The grief she'd experienced back then couldn't be faked, no matter how good of an actress she was. It was a testament to her desperation that she would lie about something like that. But then, that had always been Tanya's signature: to lie and deceive. Deep down she wasn't a bad person—he could only guess at what kind of a life had produced a individual so insecure that lies where her only sanctuary.
No, he could never have loved her, but he should have treated her better. He'd been so keen on not repeating the mistakes of his past, that he never took the time to really look at the woman by his side. Neither did he try to console her once their baby had been lost—he simply walked out on her and let himself be swallowed by his own sorrow.
He'd failed her in so many instances … And he was going to fail her in so much more, for he wouldn't stay with her. She was right—he'd given her nothing and that's exactly what he'd offer her in the future.
That's when he discovered that even the dead can cry.