Page 56 of Thief of my Heart

“No,” I said honestly. “Not all of them.”

Her finger drifted over my chest, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. “Which ones are important?”

I didn’t answer for a long time. I focused on the water stain in the plaster above the bed, then on the portrait of St. Christopher hanging over the little table and chair set. Lea remained quiet. So much more patient than usual.

Apparently, that was the effect of even a little bit of sex on my girl. I wondered what the real thing would do.

Eventually, though, I pointed to a spot on my upper pec, to the left of my sternum. I didn’t have to look at where I was pointing. I knew exactly where this bit of ink was.

Lea pushed up off my chest so she could hover over me, her dark hair a silky sheet over one shoulder that tickled my arm as she examined the cursive name on my left pec. It was surrounded by a wreath of wings and a halo inked in gold lines.

“Tommy,” she read. “Who’s that?”

I swallowed and remained focused on the St. Christopher picture, where the saint’s head was surrounded by a similarly drawn halo. “He was my little brother.”

Lea looked up, green eyes bright with surprise. “You had a brother? I didn’t know you had any family.”

I shook my head. “I don’t. Not anymore.” I swallowed hard. “It’s, ah, hard to talk about.”

Her expression managed to be sympathetic without pity. I had to give it to her; it was a hard combination.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I understand that.”

She did, I realized. And she had still told me her story on the train.

I figured I could at least repay the favor.

“He was six years younger than me,” I told her. “Different dads, though. He, um, was in foster care for a long time after my mom took off.”

“Why did she leave?”

“She…” I never knew how to answer that question. “I don’t really know,” I said honestly. “Drugs, probably. She got sucked into crack in the eighties, I think. When Tommy was about a year old, she dumped us at her sister-in-law’s place, and we never saw her again. I heard she OD’d when I was maybe fourteen, but I could never track her down completely.”

“Where was your dad?”

“He’s serving time upstate. Forty years for two counts of murder.”

I could have told her the gritty details, but I trusted she could fill in the blanks. My dad wasn’t a good guy—never had been, never would be.

“Anyway,” I said. “Tommy’s dad was a one-night stand. He never even acknowledged him.”

She didn’t ask why my mom had never sued for paternity or anything like that. We both knew that, even if she had wanted it, the cost of court, lawyers, all that would have stopped her. Just like it did so many others.

“The thing was, Tommy had cerebral palsy. And my mom couldn’t deal. He wasn’t—he needed other—” I broke off, shaking my head. “I couldn’t take care of him by myself. Not the way he needed.”

“Well, of course you couldn’t. You were only a kid.” Lea’s matter-of-factness pulled me out of the haze of shame that always clouded my head whenever I thought about Tommy.

“You did,” I said evenly. “You and your brother took care of your sisters.”

“Doesn’t mean we did a good job,” she replied just as evenly. “And it doesn’t mean we should have had to, either.”

We were quiet for a minute while she let that set in. Eventually, I relaxed the fists I hadn’t realized I’d made and kept talking, fully aware that if I didn’t finish this story, she’d get it out of me anyway.

Which might have been exactly what I needed.

“He lived in this group home that specialized in helping kids like him,” I said. “Kids with special needs. I was moved around a lot until I was in high school. Then I ran off for good. Bounced around sleeping on friends’ couches, things like that. You know the rest. But I…I always checked on Tommy. Made sure they were treating him all right.”

“Were they?” Lea asked. She seemed more afraid of that answer than of the others I’d offered.

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