This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.
It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.
Disclaimer—same as the other parts.
New York City, New York, USA—December 25, 2032
Kit—7:30 AM
The morning light hit me square in the face as Erik pulled the curtains back. I grunted into my pillow, turning over to avoid the harsh light. "It's snowing again?" he asked no one in particular. "That's it. Everyone pack your things, we're moving to California."
I sat up, sleepy and agitated. "We're moving because you don't like the snow?"
"I'm sick of the snow, Kit. It's snowed every goddamn day this week."
I stared at him for a moment. "We live in New York, you clot! It's supposed to snow here in December!" He just sighed, walking out of the room. "You're impossible, Erik Christian Muhlheim!"
He poked his head back into the room. "What did you just call me?"
"You heard me." I climbed out of the bed, now fully awake. He stopped me halfway to my closet.
"I thought I made it clear I hate being called by my full name."
I stepped around him. "Then don't act so bloody stupid."
"Tu es une salope!" he spat.
I turned slowly. "I'm a what now?"
"You're not deaf!"
"Lèche mon cul!"
"Salope!"
"Connard!"
"Mange de la merde et meurs, putain!"
"Va te faire foutre!"
"Nique ta mère!"
"Stop it!" We both turned to the doorway; Gregory stood there, bracing himself on the doorframe. "For the love of God, it's Christmas. Can't you at least pretend to get along?"
I took a deep, shaky breath, staring at both my son and my husband. "I'm sorry."
Erik looked at me, a sheepish look on his face. "I'm sorry." He turned to Gregory. "We'll stop, Greg. Go on downstairs. We'll be down in a minute." As soon as Gregory had gone, he turned back to me. "Kit, I'm sorry I woke you up. I know you're exhausted." He slowly walked over to me and embraced me. "I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," I said, swatting his arm playfully. "Let's go do the 'Christmas thing,' okay?" He nodded, and we walked downstairs hand-in-hand. We weren't downstairs thirty seconds when Gregory came over to us, grinning.
"I know it's Christmas, and it's supposed to be just us, but…"
Erik cocked an eyebrow. "But…?"
"Would you mind if I brought JoJo up? I don't want her to be all alone."
"I thought I made it perfectly clear to you months ago that I couldn't afford to lose Joanna because of you!"
I sighed. "Erik, shut up." With him struck momentarily speechless, I turned to Gregory. "Of course you can bring her up. No one should be alone on Christmas."
He smiled. "Thanks, Mum." Without another sound, he sprinted out the door.
As I walked toward the kitchen, Erik finally regained his voice. "Thank you so much for superseding my authority, Christine. I feel quite manly right now."
"They're in love, Erik. I see no reason…"
"The boy's seventeen! He doesn't know what love is yet!"
I paused, my arm halfway in the cabinet, hand wrapped around a coffee mug. "Erik, that's the first time in years our son has referred to me as 'Mum.' Quite frankly, whatever your problem with him dating Joanna is, I don't give a shit about it."
"I thought we had agreed to at least compromise on things!"
"You're not the compromising type!" I pulled the mug down, setting it on the counter.
"How do you figure that?"
"When someone doesn't agree with you, you have this nasty tendency to kill them." I watched as his eyes went wide, suddenly realizing what my mouth had done. I clapped a hand over my lips. "Oh, Erik, I…"
"Don't." He turned away from me. "Just…just don't."
There was silence for a few minutes. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I felt like such an ass. To have said something so blatantly unfeeling…
"That hasn't been true for years," he said, turning back to me. "Decades, actually." He was quiet again, seemingly lost in thought. "2004. Paris. Nichole. She was the last one I…I murdered." He spat the word, as though it tasted foul on his lips. "Almost thirty years, Kit. You can't let it go?"
"I…" I was stunned. "I didn't mean to…" I was suddenly, and forcibly, reminded of Étienne's words: "He was a murderer in life, and a fitting punishment is that he should be murdered."
I stared at him for nearly a full minute before I found my tongue. "No, Erik, I can't. It still weighs heavily on my mind. I still have nightmares about it. You killed her not two feet in front of me. If your sword had been any longer—half an inch more—you'd have gotten me as well. I had her blood on me. I can't… You're a murderer, and as much as I want to ignore it, I find I can't."
He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his face expressionless. "So… You've waited until the Christmas of our twenty-third year of marriage to tell me this. And I expect you just expect me to act like all's well when the children arrive?"
I sighed. "I don't really care what you do anymore."
"Oh?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"Yes. I've been thinking since June, and I've finally come to a conclusion."
He smiled amusedly. "And what might that conclusion be?"
I sighed, starting to tremble. I couldn't possibly say it. He'd never believe me. But after all he'd put me through, all the hurt, the suffering, the agony, the grief…maybe it was time. "Erik, I want a divorce."
