Page 9 of Their Dark Rose

Despite his addiction, I found out years later that it was common knowledge that Dad was just the owner, not the man who actually ran Nightingale Construction.

But they thanked him, regardless. Sent a selfie from the site to show how well it was coming along. I’m guessing they felt obligated to do it, given their years-long friendship with my late grandparents.

Their message pushed a button inside Dad’s brain. Forcing him to drive over there that very minute.

Later, the construction workers said he drove into the Abbot brothers’ parents like he was on a mission. Slammed them into their would’ve-been mansion. Split their bodies in half.

The hard hats on their heads were of no use.

They died moments later. Probably looking into my father’s dark blue eyes.

Some days, I wonder if they saw regret in them. I could only hope so. At least a glimmer of it.

So there’s my father.

Mom didn’t stick around. She took off after the police couldn’t charge her with anything. My guess is she knew the people in town would blame her for being a part of it. For being equally high as Dad. For being guilty of not stopping him.

She had to have known they would, so she fled.

Leaving me to my three resentful godfathers. My guardians.

The men who look after my company for me until I turn eighteen.

Mason, who went to high school with my dad, said it’s either he signed it over to me or he’d hire someone to kill Dad in prison.

Finn—the one brother who sometimes spared a smile my way—told me so.

He also confided in me how they sold their parents’ retail conglomerate to hold the fort down for me. They were twenty-eight, twenty-seven, and twenty-five at the time, respectively, but they knew how to run a company.

To keep it prosperous and functioning.

While homeschooling me since they think I’m too good for my school. Even the private one.

Their actions show they love me.

Their expressions tell a different story. A story of resentment. Their aloofness and stern treatment of me speak for themselves—I’m to blame for my parents’ sins.

Not all the time, though. Sometimes, over the last few months, their eyes seem heated. Scorching heat flits on their faces. But it never lasts. Most days, I think I’m imagining it.

Maybe I am. Hell, I must be.

Years later, I’m still as confused as I was when they pulled me out of my classroom.

I get up to sit, rubbing my eyes, swiping off the last of my tears.

At least snow starts falling outside my window. It makes everything a tiny bit better.

It also pushes me out of the bed.

Falk—my homeschool teacher for the day—won’t wait forever.

Or even a minute.

Because even though teasing him became a hobby of mine, I try not to test him too much.

One of these days, he might give up on me altogether. And that’s the last thing I want.

Time to start the day.

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