Richard stood quickly but didn't rush me. Instead, he lifted his hands slightly, palms open, a silent sign of surrender. "I'm going to touch you now," he said, each syllable deliberate. "Don't freak out, please."
His tentative steps closed the space between us. When his hand landed gently on my shoulder, my body jolted instinctively, memories flashing sharp and merciless. But his hand steadied. His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my blouse.
I was shaking, trembling so badly I thought I might shatter into pieces. Years wasted on hatred for the wrong man. Years of pushing people away, of being unable to love, unable to let anyone near me. And if it wasn't him… then who? Who had done this to me?
"Relax," Richard whispered. His thumb moved in slow circles on my shoulder. "It wasn't me. Look at me, Nita."
I lifted my gaze reluctantly, my lashes wet.
"You must have seen his eyes that night," Richard continued. "Look at mine now. Really look. And tell me if it was me."