Page 79 of Vow of Vengeance

To this day, I can’t hold a conversation with a woman who has a bad platinum dye job and not itch to walk away.

She wears the same outfit she wore to court so many years ago. A black turtleneck, a black and red patterned blazer with a matching skirt that was too short for court. Scuffed black pumps on her feet.

If you think this is a coincidence, you’re a fool. There are no flukes in my mother’s world. She’s as sharp as the tip of a poisoned arrow.

She doesn’t believe in fate. She is the hand of fate.

She knew I’d come here eventually, and she saved this outfit for that moment. It’s a manipulation tactic. She chose this outfit for me, for this day that we finally see one another again, and it works.

Memories flood my mind. I smell the dry, stuffy air of the courtroom. I hear the quiet whispers, a cough, and the shuffle of feet as we await the verdict. I see the jury filing in, one by one, until twelve worn leather seats are filled. My stomach knots, and a weight like a stone settles between my hip bones.

She wore this outfit the day I testified to her innocence.

The day that, over two hours of questioning, I not only committed perjury, I ultimately betrayed my father.

I’m not here to avenge him.

For so long, I’ve hated my mother in a singular, solitary way, thinking of her as an unattached being who exists solely on her own. Hating her from afar. A hazy figure, like a hologram, would appear in my mind as I imagined her death. Only—as I stand before her—I realize how foolish I was to think I would be capable of killing her.

“Hello, Mom.” I cringe, the word sounding foreign and pathetic all at once.

You’ll always be your mother’s child, no matter how old you are.

I cut to the chase. “I found out I have a brother. I’ve come to meet him.”

“What?” She gasps in fake shock. “You mean you didn’t come here to visit your dear mother? I get it—of course, you want to meet him. Everyone loves him. The kid is golden. Nothing like his dad, Billy Brooks. What a deadbeat.”

Deadbeat.

Hearing her say the phrase again, I cringe, remembering her using the exact words about my own father.

The words catapult from me. “Did you kill him, too?”

She gives a dry hack of a laugh.

“Did you?” I ask, realizing if she killed my dad, she could have easily destroyed his, too. There was nothing in that file about his father.

She waves her hand through the air, dismissing her guilt. “You know I was found innocent. Those charges were dropped.”

“How could I forget?” The words taste metallic on my tongue.

“You were a convincing little actor.” Her gaze narrows. “I never thanked you for that.”

I’ll stop hating myself for what I did long before I get a word of gratitude from her. And I’ll never stop hating myself. Yes, she’s a master manipulator, whispering in my ear, telling me she killed my father in self-defense, and she was in a position of power over me.

Still, ultimately, I’m the one who robbed my father of the justice he deserved.

I’m loyal to the core. He was already gone. I couldn’t put my mom behind bars for life as well. I knew no matter how terrible she was to him, Dad would not have wanted that.

Family is family.

Now, seeing her still as bitter and vindictive as she was the day I last saw her, I’m thinking maybe I should have told the cops the truth and had her locked up. Especially now that I know she’s gone on to procreate.

“Seriously, though,” I say, “I know it’s only the one kid”—Thank God—“but how many more ex-husbands have you accumulated since I last saw you?”

She grins. “Just the two.”

“Two?” I try not to look surprised.

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