The Still of Night by Kristen Heitzmann

rippling through his head. “Do you know what it’s like to see the woman who killed your child? To feel the visceral poison of the attraction you once had, still have? The wanting, the hating.” He swallowed hard and cursed Rick.
    Rick gripped his shoulder. “If you don’t forgive her, it will destroy you.”
    Morgan slapped his hand off. “Get out.” He threw off the sheet and tried to stand, then collapsed back on the bed.
    “I know how much you love her, Morgan. I know how it hurts. You pulled me out of the pit when Noelle left.”
    “That’s my job.” Morgan felt drained. “I’m the big brother.”
    “Well, maybe it’s time you listened for a change. You’re lucky you didn’t die last night, driving up here in your condition. Is that it, Morgan, a death wish?”
    Morgan didn’t answer. Let Rick say his piece.
    “You owe God more than that, and somewhere inside you know it.”
    “The Lord made a bad investment in me.” Morgan shrugged. “He can sell it off anytime.”
    “But He won’t.”
    Morgan closed his eyes. Definitely easier on the head that way.
    “Accept it, Morgan.”
    He didn’t want to know what.
    “Peace and forgiveness. That’s what you need.”
    Peace. That sounded good right about now. If he didn’t open his eyes, would Rick go away? Pain thrummed. And not just in his head. Seeing Jill had awakened the ugliest parts of him. Maybe he should get out, go somewhere else. Paris—the Champs-Elysées. Australia. Norway. Antarctica. Would any place be far enough?
    He opened his eyes at the tap on his door. Rick had left it open and Noelle peeked in. “Are you decent?”
    His mouth quirked. “If I’m not, it’s your fault.” He vaguely recalled her pulling back the sheet so he could collapse into bed last night.
    She came in with a small glass, brown and fizzing. “Here.”
    Morgan took it. “Bitters and soda?”
    “I found the bitters in your cabinet. All I had was Sprite to mix in.” Her eyes were shadowed. The last thing she needed in her condition was sleep deprivation.
    Morgan raised the glass in toast. “To my savior.”
    Rick frowned, but Noelle just looked sad.
    Morgan couldn’t stand that. He gulped the bitters, which would help the state of his stomach, if little else. “Now get out and let me clean up.” He seriously needed the bathroom, and he’d had all he could take of their concern.
    Rick wrapped Noelle’s shoulders with his arm and led her out. Morgan chugged the rest of the bitters, then dragged himself up and staggered to the bathroom. He closed the door with a groan, then emerged later, toweling his head dry. It had been a long time since he’d messed himself up this bad. He rubbed his face and dropped the towel.
    Gingerly he pulled on some navy Ralph Lauren cargo shorts and a coordinating yellow-collared shirt. His shoes had to be somewhere. He pulled one loafer from under the bed, holding his head as he stood up, and slipped it onto his bare foot. The other was nearby. Now to pack a few things. Within half an hour, he was ready. He picked up his bag and went down the hall.
    Noelle was in her studio, painting a watercolor still life. He’d noticed she tended toward even smaller themes these days. This one was a glass vase with cut flowers and a blue-and-white cloth bunched beside it. She was washing the upper edge of the paper, and with her arm raised, the bulge in her belly was more pronounced. She turned, took in his bag. “No, Morgan.”
    “Gotta learn one of those words without the other, my dear.”
    She laid down her brush as he approached. “Why are you leaving?”
    He set down his bag and cupped her shoulders. “You’re in no condition to play nursemaid to a prodigal.”
    Again that sadness in her eyes. It twisted his gut. “Besides, I have places to go.” He slid his fingers into the hair that hung over her neck. “I’ll think of you while I’m strolling the Champs-Elysées. We never had the chance.”
    “Please don’t go like