Page 37 of Devilish Ink

I’d figure it out. Like I said. I was a patient man.

All I needed now was to find Rian.

I glanced through the glass doors of the Cherrywood Estate.

It was a drug and alcohol rehab centre.

Fuck. Had my brother fallen so far?

Guilt gnawed at my heart. I should have been there for him. I should have come to Dublin earlier, not waiting until our da had died to work up the courage.

This was my fault.

I forced my feet to step forward, to enter. To face whatever was waiting for me in here.

I smiled at the receptionist and asked to see Rian Merrick, my voice cracking on his name. I introduced myself as his brother.

The receptionist nudged her blue plastic frames back up her petite nose. “Your brother is a patient here, Mr Merrick—”

“Liam. Or…Lee.”

That nickname was growing on me.

“I can inform him that you are here to see him but…” Her soft blue eyes softened even further when she looked from the computer screen to me. “…it’s his choice.”

I nodded.

She nestled the cardigan tighter around her shoulders and passed through glass sliding doors, disappearing quickly round the corner of a long hallway.

I paced in anticipation. Paced to keep warm. I feared the cold in my bones could only be relieved by my brother’s forgiveness.

Even before the receptionist returned I knew it was probably still a long way off.

My shoulders sagged when I saw the receptionist’s face: bad news. She reached across the counter to grip my hand, her fingers icy.

“It’s often very difficult for our patients to see family members in particular,” she offered kindly. “There’s a lot of guilt. Shame. Drug use takes them to the very depths and the struggle back up can be ugly. I’m sure he just wants you to see him better, you know? Please don’t take it personally, Mr Merrick.”

I bit back a snort.

Rian’s refusal to see me was as fucking personal as it got.

I don’t think even our father raised from the grave would receive a bigger middle finger than me.

Rian expected cruelty from him. I was supposed to be better. Stronger. Braver.

“Can you pass along a message for me?” I asked.

“Absolutely!” She brightened.

“Can you tell Rian that I’m coming back every morning,” I said. “Whether he sees me or not. Whether he spits at the sound of my name or screams his lungs out. Whether he curses me or wishes me dead and gone. I’m coming back. I’ll be here. For him. I’m going to be there for him.”

Even if he didn’t want me to.

The receptionist gave my hand one last squeeze and promised to tell him.

“It’s not your fault,” she told me as I turned to leave, back out into the cold.

I smiled bitterly over my shoulder at her.

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