Page 77 of The Prodigal

I go quiet, taking a small breath and focusing on Eden’s soft touch. “Sometimes, I can still feel the needles pierce my skin as I thrashed against the bed, begging for someone to listen—to realize I wasn’t sick like he said.”

Her cries are muffled as she burrows her face in my shirt. “I hope they both suffered when they died.”

They didn’t, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that.

“I was a pawn in the congressman’s end game—where he could retire with the sympathies of the community and millions of dollars in campaign contributions to dry his tears with when I died, too.”

“I hate him,” she cries. “I hate him more than Gerald.”

And she keeps impressing me with these sweet nothings.

“I spent my entire childhood in the same bed that Stetson died in.”

“Stetson is a real person?”

I nod. “He was their first son and died before he could finish fulfilling his purpose of making his father rich.”

I pause, feeling her tears soak through my shirt. “I used to envy Stetson when I spent summer vacations in bed and not with my friends. I thought he got off easy by dying young. But not me. I couldn’t die even when I prayed for it. Dreams were nightmares, and hope became torture.”

A sob wracks her body. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

I pull her hand from beneath my shirt and thread my fingers through hers. “But I haven’t answered your question yet about why I sleep in the closet.”

“I don’t want to know,” she says through tears. “I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” I whisper, “because you’re not like me. You still believe in happy endings.”

Maybe I’m no better than Albrecht for making her suffer through this, but I want her to understand why this revenge matters to me—why I am keeping her birth father’s identity a secret until I exact my revenge. I want her to—Understanding hits me like a bitch slap to the face. I am telling her this story because I hope, one day, she can forgive me.

“Can you be brave, love?” I ask, realizing that I want her to know me—to see the worst scar I carry. “Can I finish your bedtime story?”

She chuckles, but it’s watered down with tears. “You’re demented.”

And so is she.

“Anyway, as I was saying before you insulted me, I started fighting back when I got older. I made Tooney and his wife, Angelina, work hard for every drug cocktail they shoved down my throat. Some days, I even won, sending Tooney into a rage as he strapped me down and told me that I was worthless—a cheap replacement of Stetson. The toys in my room weren’t mine because the room wasn’t mine. It was Stetson’s. I was nothing but a paycheck to Tooney, and eventually, he would cash it in.”

A sob catches in her throat. “I want to set fire to his bones and make Albrecht drink the ashes until he chokes.”

That’s my dark and twisted girl. “Don’t distract me by talking dirty, love. I’m trying to finish this story without getting hard.”

She squeezes my hand. “Take mercy on me and finish quickly then. My heart can’t take much more.”

I can do that. I can grant her this one thing.

“I discovered that the closet was my greatest defense against Tooney sneaking into my room and drugging me while I was asleep. The walls became my fortress—the kingdom I would never have. The closet was void of reminders—of Stetson—and the love I would never have. A small storage space became my home—the only place I found peace in the world crumbling around me. It was my protector—or, as you like to say, my hero.”

A sob bursts from Eden, and it takes her several minutes to calm down. “You promised a happy ending.”

I chuckle, ignoring the anxiety rushing through my body. I’ve never shared this story with anyone, not even my parents. The last thing I want is anyone looking at me differently. I haven’t achieved my happily ever after yet. That’s what revenge is for, but pretty lies make Eden happy. “I escaped and lived sarcastically ever after,” I tease. “Happy?”

She smacks my chest. “How did you escape?”

I flash her a glare she doesn’t see. “You and your fucking questions.”

“Remington,” she demands, undeterred. “Tell me, or I will stab you with my fingernail.”

What does it say about me that I’d actually enjoy seeing her try?

---