Page 45 of White Rabbit

Andrew scoffs. He’s extra twitchy tonight, checking the windows, jumping at every little noise. Paranoia was clearly setting in, but there was nothing I could do when they both denied there was even a problem.

“It’s that stupid job of yours, isn’t it?” My father huffs, wiping at his mouth with his napkin. “You don’t need it. Just quit and get married.”

Resisting the urge to laugh, I take a sip of my water, ignoring the way Andrew’s glaring at me over the garlic bread and salad bowls between us. “I can’t just get married. Chad has vanished. Won’t take my calls. Moved out of his apartment. Gone.”

If I was expecting sympathy, I should have known better.

“What did you say?” Andrew barks, slamming his fork down on the table.

What the hell had he taken? He was so angry and volatile this evening. Why was he acting like Chad had broken up with him? I’m the one who’d been ghosted.

Ignoring my brother, leaving him to keep sweating out whatever was in his system, I twirl some of my pasta around my fork. “Anyway, I don’t want to quit. I’ve been making some genuine progress with my class. Elijah Creed joined the program and I have to say the man has real talent. I’ve never seen anyone paint quite like him. There’s so much depth, he has so much potential.”

I don’t need to look up to know that both Andrew and my father have frozen. The tension in the room rises, preparing to crest like a wave before crashing onto the shore.

In all honesty, I don’t know why I brought Eli into it. Perhaps it was because last time, I was told not to. My hidden rebellious nature clearly got the better of me and the words just slipped out as my anger had simmered away.

Why was everyone in this house allowed to be angry and aggressive apart from me? Why did I always have to bow my head, bite my tongue and bubble away like a pot left too long on the stove? I wanted to see their reactions. I wanted their fury.

“I have been more than patient with you Ava, even asking nicely. This is no longer a request,” my father growls, his eyes full of an odd mix of fear and fury. “You will quit.”

Wasn’t that interesting? What was he so afraid of?

“Has he said anything? Does he know anything?” my brother stammers, his face even paler than before. What had they done to be so afraid of Creed?

“Are you in trouble Andrew?” I ask softly.

My father stands, slamming his hands down on the table, roaring. “Tell her nothing!”

“He’s a monster. A fucking monster.” Andrew screams as he pushes to his feet. He throws the bottle of wine at the wall, before shoving dishes to the floor. “You ruin everything, Ava!”

“Me? What did I even do? What the hell is going on here?” I push my chair back and watch my father carefully. I mean, he looks like my father, but there’s this heavy air around him, this horrible feeling that I don’t recognize. Something is wrong in this house and as per usual, I’m the last to know.

“I think it’s time you left,” he grinds out as he tries to calm my brother, who’s punched a hole through one of my mother’s prints and into the wall.

“Or you could just tell me,” I counter. “I could help.”

“GET OUT!” He bellows, as my brother continues his tantrum. As I pass, my father grabs my arm. Leaning in, so that flecks of spittle hit my cheek, he hisses, “Quit the job. This is my last warning, girl.”

Climbing into my car, my hands tremble as I sit with my forehead resting on the steering wheel. Who the fuck were those men in there? What the hell was going on?

There’s one question that’s never made sense the entire time I’ve been poring over Elijah’s file. I’ve asked myself over and over again. How did Elijah Creed, a man capable of killing his own father and hiding the evidence, get caught? It was part of his literal job as a fixer and enforcer for the mafia to cover his tracks.

I think my father is involved, my brother too. I’m just not sure how.

“Girl, where the fuck have you been hiding?” Orla laughs as she pulls me into a big hug.

Since I wasn’t working an early shift tomorrow and tonight’s dinner had been a shitshow, I’d text Tiff and Orla to see if they wanted to grab some drinks at a bar near my father's house. I needed to talk to someone, and I wasn’t ready to go home. Had my father lost the plot, or was I being sensitive—like he always claimed?

“Guilty conscious?” Tiff snaps before giving me a lukewarm, one-armed hug.

“What?” I blink as Orla hands me the cocktail menu. “Guilty over what?”

“Nothing.” Rolling her eyes, Tiff brushes her hands over her dresses, not meeting my gaze. Grumbling something about needing to powder her nose, she heads to the bathrooms.

Turning to Orla, I frown and wave to the space where Tiff was just standing. “What was that?”

“I think she might have had a few drinks before coming out,” Orla confides in me, but it still doesn’t sit right. Tiff had been treating me like garbage for a while, acting just like my father. Was I just surrounded by gaslighting narcissists? Surely not?

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