Page 87 of Scarred
Tristan
The guilty must pay for their sins.
I stare at the scrawled note—the one that was written by me—before placing it down on Michael’s desk and looking up at him.
“And what have you done to be guilty of, brother?” I ask. “What has Xander done?”
Michael’s eyes shift from left to right. “Nothing, of course.”
My boot presses on the wood floor, causing it to creak, and his body jumps. Amusement rains down my insides and I remind myself to smother the grin wanting to spread across my face.
“Do you ever think about our father?” he asks, his fingers white-knuckling the back of his chair.
The question makes my stomach twist, like it does any time I think of our father.
“Did mother put you up to this line of questioning?” I glance around, half expecting her to be in the room. Truthfully, I’m not sure if she’s even still in thecastle, but I can’t be bothered enough to care either way.
He shakes his head.
I place a joint in my mouth and walk to the sitting area, bending over the coffee table to light the end on a candelabra, puffing a few times as I make my way back toward Michael and offer it to him.
He stares at the burning paper as though he doesn’t trust it not to be poisoned.
“If I were to kill you, brother, I would make sure you knew it was coming.” I nod at him. “Take it. It will ease your conscience. At least for a while.”
He swallows, reaching out and gripping it between his fingers, bringing it to his lips and scrunching his face as the smoke cascades like a waterfall from his nose.
“Do you believe in God?” he mutters, staring down at the hash.
I place my hands in my pockets, tilting my head. “I do.”
“You hardly attend mass.” He peers at me from under his brows.
“There’s a difference in beliefs and blind worship, Michael. One builds a sense of self, and the other strips it away.” I move back to the sitting area, settling into the chaise lounge and leaning back. As I gaze at the ceiling, anticipation flies around my stomach like buzzing bees, opportunity staring me in the face. “However, if you’re speaking of life after death, I think there must be. How else could I see our father’s ghost?”
I snap upright to a sitting position, slapping my hand over my mouth.
Michael’s eyes widen and he stomps around his desk, the joint burning in his fingers as he fumbles his way across the room, plopping in a chair across from me. “Say that again.”
Shaking my head, I scoot back, running a hand through my hair. “No, I… I don’t know why I said that. Ignore me.”
“Tristan.” He leans in. “Do you see our father?”
I rest my elbows on my knees, drawing down my brows and making my breathing stutter. “I think I might be going crazy.”
Michael laughs; a light, tinkling sound. One that bleeds with relief.
Imbecile.
“It’s when I’m sleeping mostly,” I lie, raising my head to stare into Michael’s eyes. “He warns me of things to come. At first, I… I thought they were just dreams. But lately…”
Michael nods, his eyes wild, their amber sheen hazy and unfocused. “Lately?”
“Lately, the things he says… they’ve been coming true.” I scoff, pushing myself to a stand. “You must think I’m mad. Forget I said anything.Please.”
I rush toward the door, but before I can even make it halfway across the room, I’m stopped by the sound of his voice.
“I see him too.”
