Page 50 of Brutal Power

He nods and there’s a flicker of emotion, just the barest hint of sadness, but he quickly buries it and leads me inside.

There are a few people in the living room that I don’t know. Brody introduces me to them and I realize they must be the petitioners that had been in the yard when the shooting happened. Brody takes an older man back into the office with him and closes up, leaving the others to wait around, and I head into the kitchen where his mother’s sitting at the table with coffee and the newspaper. She’s staring at the wall, the mug held to her lips.

“Hello, Orla,” I say and sit across from her. “Busy day already, I hear.”

She blinks at me and a little smile breaks across the smooth surface of her otherwise blank face. “Elena, I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I had to check on everyone when I heard what happened.”

“Oh, dear, that’s sweet of you, but I’m fine. Molly’s going to be here soon.”

“Then I’ll stick around for a while and see what I can do to help out.”

Orla gets up and starts to bustle around the kitchen, talking about some of the people who had been outside, like old Mrs. Grady, a widow that has been a member of the organization for many years. “They own a very good restaurant a few blocks over, a lovely place. She was here to ask Brody for help keeping her rent from rising too much. She’s afraid she’ll lose the location.”

“I’m sure he can help with that.” When she starts doing the dishes, I take over and insist she sit down. “How are you doing though? Are you holding up okay?”

“The shooting has me rattled,” she admits with a little uncomfortable laugh. “In all my years, this has never happened before. That’s a small miracle, right? But Brody’s dad always tried to stay out of conflicts. He was a good man.” She stares away from me, back toward the windows, and I get another glimpse of the deep sadness inside of her.

“You know, the last time I saw you, I meant to ask for some funny childhood stories about Brody. Do you have any?”

She lights up slightly. “I have about ten dozen. That boy was trouble.”

“Seriously? Brody? He seems so reserved.”

Orla snorts and drinks her coffee. “He was aterror, Elena, the most emotional boy I’ve ever met in my life. Threw tantrums that lasted for days and spanned the entire neighborhood.” She tells me about the time he ran away from home and ended up hiding in an abandoned machine shop ten blocks away before someone from the organization found him. And about the time he struck out at Little League and charged the mound because he thought the pitcher was being an asshole about it. Andabout a dozen more spats, fights, outbursts, and other hilarious incidents from when he was little.

“When did he change?” I ask, drying my hands and sitting across from her. “I’m having a really hard time picturing your son as this loud and emotional young kid.”

“Oh, dear, let me think. It must’ve been when he became a teenager, maybe a little earlier. He got so moody, and he was working with Malachy all the time—that was my husband’s name—and I think his father really rubbed off on him.”

I chew my lip and glance back toward the office, wondering if that deeply emotional person is still hidden inside of Brody. “That must have been hard.”

“I don’t know. It was easier in some ways. He really was a tough kid. But you’re right, when he mellowed out and started holding everything inside, I really wondered if I’d lost something, you know? But, well, his siblings all came, and we had a full house, so it was hard to really feel sad that Brody wasn’t pitching fits anymore.”

I ask her more questions about her husband, about her kids, and I get a pretty nice picture of a relatively happy family. They worked hard, and their father was probably pretty hard on them, but they loved each other and took care of each other, and they grew their organization as a unit. I sense Orla was more involved in that side of their life more when she was younger, but things must’ve changed after her husband died.

Brody fetches me after Molly shows up and takes over. But as I’m walking away, Orla gives me a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, and she even cracks a smile. “Thanks for making me relive all those good old memories,” she says.

Brody closes his office door and turns on me, a strange look in his eyes. “What were you two talking about?” he asks and sits down beside me on the couch. As soon as he’s close, his knee touches mine, and his fingers absently stroke my thigh.

“Just childhood stories about you. Apparently, you were a nightmare.”

He grunts and looks away, his face showing nothing. “I was a kid. Things were different.”

“It’s okay, you know. You can feel things. You don’t have to swallow it all the time.” I lean toward him and touch his cheek. “Like right now.”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one who was out there.” Except he won’t meet my gaze, and I know he’s lying.

“Brody, people shot up your truck and it was parked in your mother’s driveway. Come on, don’t tell me like that means nothing. After the attack on the oasis, I was a mess for weeks.”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t like that.”

“Yes, it totally is. I mean, not on the same scale, but people came to your home and violated it. Don’t pretend like you’re fine.”

“But I am fine.” He pushes my leg away and gets off the couch, stalking across the room. “Why do you insist on looking for feelings that aren’t there?”

“You need to process, that’s all I’m saying.”

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