Chapter 6 - The Weight of Gold
The gold wedding ring sat on the mahogany nightstand, catching the pale, bruised light of the dawn like a tiny, accusing eye.
Clare stood frozen in the center of the guest room, the icy draft from the open window chilling the bare skin of her ankles. Down below, on the frosted front steps of the brownstone, Richard’s silhouette remained carved into the morning fog, a solitary, broken monolith staring down a dead-end street at a receding pair of footprints.
A floorboard groaned behind Clare.
She turned sharply. Daniel stood in the doorway, his eyes bleary with interrupted sleep, his silk pajama shirt half-unbuttoned. He blinked against the light, looking confused and disheveled.
“Clare? What are you… why is the window open?” He rubbed a hand over his face, then noticed her expression. “What’s wrong?”
Clare didn't speak. She pointed a trembling finger at the nightstand.
Daniel frowned, stepping into the room. He walked over, picked up his father’s heavy gold wedding band, and stared at it as if it were a foreign object. Then he picked up the scrap of hotel stationery, his eyes scanning the handwritten scrawl.
He knows where to find me if he wants to save his daughter.
“She left,” Daniel whispered, the words catching in his dry throat. “In the middle of a blizzard? Without a coat or boots?”
“She left her winter jacket on the chair downstairs,” Clare said, her voice dropping into a flat, hard register. “She only took her taped-up bag. She didn't run away, Daniel. She dared him.”
A heavy thud echoed from the foyer below, followed by the deep, resonant slam of the front door. Heavy, dragging footsteps began to ascend the stairs, each one sounding heavier than the last.
A moment later, Richard appeared in the doorway.
He hadn't put on a coat. His white dress shirt was soaked through at the shoulders from the melting snow, his gray hair plastered to his forehead in wild, damp strands. He looked twenty years older than he had twenty-four hours ago, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths.
He didn't look at Daniel. His sunken, bloodshot eyes locked onto Clare.
“She’s gone,” Richard said, his voice a dry rattle. He held up his left hand, the naked skin of his ring finger bare and pale where the gold band had lived for thirty years. “She left my ring. She left her mother’s ring.”
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“Your wife’s ring?” Clare echoed, frowning. “I thought that was your wedding ring from your current marriage.”
Richard let out a harsh, broken sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't carried so much agony. “No. Eleanor’s ring. The woman I walked away from in 1993 because I was a coward terrified of a scandal.” He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. “She didn't want my money. She never wanted my money. She wanted me to look her in the eye and say she was mine.”
