Page 77 of Brutal Savior

“Yep. I’m sorry.”

I don’t tell him I’ll pay for his lost stuff, because it’s not replaceable. He brought all his most precious items with him. All his mementos from my nan and from mum when she was a baby. Everything.

I risk a glance his way. His face is set, hard and strong. British stiff upper lip through and through. But his eyes, green like mine, have a sheen to them. I look away fast. Grandad would hate me seeing him cry.

It’s anger, though, that fills his words. “Don’t say your fuckin’ sorry. Catch the cunt who's doing all this. Are you any closer? Do you know who he is yet?”

“She. And yes. She got in by posing as the cleaning service. We can—”

“What did you say?”

Something in the words sends a jolt through me. The sudden, urgent snap.

“The cleaning service. She posed as—”

“I thought you were looking for a bloke.”

“I did, too. It was stupid of me to assume. It never crossed my mind that it might be a woman. But the computer guy said it most likely was the other day, and today confirmed it.”

“But last week you said it’s someone who knew you as a kid.”

I look up, meeting Grandad’s stare. His eyes are wide, his jaw has gone slack, and his normally ruddy cheeks have paled deathly white. My guts twist. “What? What is it?”

Grandad clasps his hands together, rubbing a thumb over one knuckle. He has bad arthritis, but this looks like a nervous gesture. My interrogation training kicks in, and the cold part of me that is always there studies him. He’s hiding something. Deciding whether to tell me a lie.

I place my hand over his, a much more touchy-feely gesture than we usually make. He looks down, startled, and shudders. My mind whirls, and I force myself to keep my voice gentle. “Please, Grandad. If you know something, you have to tell me.”

His shoulders tense, then slump. He looks around the room, gaze locking on the minibar. In a voice heavy with defeat, he says. “I know, my boy, I know. Can we get a drink first?”

My movements are jerky as I get to my feet and tackle the minibar. I pull out two Jack Daniels and a bottle of coke. Not Grandad’s favorite, but beggars can’t be choosers. Grandad doesn’t look at me as I hunt down two tiny glasses and mix the drinks. When he lifts his hand to take his, it shakes.

I’ve hardly taken my hand off his glass before he’s taken a huge swig. A moment later, the whole glass is empty. “Bloody hell. Take it easy.”

“Don’t you be telling me how to handle my drink, lad.”

The sharpness is almost normal, and for a second, I let myself believe he’s exaggerating. That this is all going to end up as no big deal. With another deep breath, he starts to speak.

“I’d been on the rigs for six years when the social called and told me they’d taken you off your mum. Since your nan died. They told me either I took you on, or you’d be put in a children’s home.”

“I know.”

He meets my gaze, and his mustache quivers as he studies me. “That was the easiest decision I ever had to make, son. If I’d had the faintest idea how bad things were, I’d have done it sooner. I always loved you and Ruth.”

I want to interrupt, to urge him to get to the point. Time is slipping past, and every moment I’m here, the person doing all this could be getting further away. But I force myself to keep silent.

“But I did have to make one hard choice.” He closes his eyes, face twisting. “You see, my boy, you had an older sister too.”

Chapter Thirty

Jacob

Fuck me, he’s lostit. He has to be going senile, and I missed the signs. An older sister? I keep my voice calm as I say, “That makes no sense, Grandad.”

“Shut up and listen.” His voice quavers, but the steel is back. “I’ve never told this to anyone. You might hate me for it after, but it needs to be said.”

I swallow and nod.

“When the social called, it was a lot more complicated than I told you. Your mum was a junkie, that’s all true, and she wasn’t taking care of you. But that wasn’t what got them called in.”

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