Page 72 of Brutal King

“What happened to your mother?” I watch him through the lens of my camera, capturing each tiny change in his expression as he takes in my question.

For a moment, I’m not sure he’ll reply. Why would he?

But after a few seconds, his lips part and he sucks in a breath and releases it. “I was very young. I’d just turned four.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.” His brows pinch tightly together as he tries to recall what happened. “I’m not sure how much of it is my ownmemory, and how much was formed from the story my father told me. We’d just moved to the States from Ireland. He was working at the post office in Chicago at the time, and an opportunity to make extra money came up. A shipment.”

“An illegal one.”

“Mmm. It went wrong and the product was lost. The man he’d done business with broke into our house. I heard her scream, I think. Screams from her bedroom. When I went in, she was dead and the window was open.” He pauses and turns slightly toward me, not to look my way, but more to not see the graves. “Father stormed in minutes later, but it was too late.”

“You saw her dead?”

“There’s an image of her body in my mind. I can see her in a pool of her own blood. Her clothes tattered from the sheer number of knife wounds.” His eyes grow distant and his features mimic the horror he must have felt then, as a child witnessing his mother slain. “That’s the only thing I see clearly. Like a fucking picture.” Turning to me, he asks, “Do you remember anything from when you were four?”

I shake my head. Sure, I know what my life was like, but just like he said, it’s all memories formed from what I’ve been told. None of them are really mine.

“I’m sorry, Gideon,” I say, and find that I actually mean it. “What happened to the man that killed her?”

“My father went to work with Giuseppe Tadesco. He helped him take care of the problem in return for his shipping services.”

“Guiseppe Tadesco,” I say. I’ve heard of him in passing. As much as my family tried to keep me from their business, it was impossible to completely shut me out. “He was in Chicago.”

“Yes.” He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mother was buried in Chicago. When Father bought the estate, he had her moved here so that I could visit her when he was gone. At first, he’d bring daisies with him when he returned froma business trip. They’d often be wilted. I began to grow them myself so I didn’t have to wait.”

“Now you take them to her every day.”

“They were her favorite flowers. That’s what I was told.”

We stay here for a while longer. I don’t take any more photographs. I don’t ask any more questions, though there are so many of them swirling through my mind. What was his mother like? Stephen’s headstone saysIn Memory of. That tells me he’s not buried here. So, where is he?

No. I don’t ask anything else, not because I don’t want to, but because the man beside me isn’t Gideon right now. There’s a longing in his expression that’s almost childlike. An ache that belongs to someone young that has experienced loss. No matter how much I want to hate him, in this moment, I can’t.

Later. I’ll ask later. For now, I stand beside him and pay my respects to his mother.

18

SOFIA

To my surprise, the estate doesn’t just have a cemetery. In fact, it holds many secrets I wish I’d discovered sooner.

On our walkabout, we come across a garden, three streams, a cave, and two guardhouses. We don’t approach those, but from a distance, Gideon waves to the men. I purse my lips, wondering if perhaps he brought me this way to show me that in fact, the grounds are secured.

The most surprising place, however, isn’t hidden in the trees at all, but in plain sight.

“How did I never see this before? I’ve looked out every window.” I run toward the building that houses the stables and a large pen. “It’s huge!”

“Sometimes we look so far ahead, we miss what’s right under our noses.”

I roll my eyes. “What, are you a poet now?”

“When inspired.” He arches a brow at me, his mouth quirked to one side.

“No horses?” I ask disappointedly, peering into the empty stalls.

“Not now. They require a lot of upkeep. But years ago, I did.” He sets his forearms against the wooden fence that surroundsthe empty paddock. His eyes roam the dirt in a circular manner, as if in his mind he’s seeing something and trailing it. “A mare. Her name was Shiloh.”

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