Page 142 of The Thief
Fuck. The bastard's been thorough, digging into my past, looking for pressure points. Finding the one relationship that still has the power to hurt me, even after all these years.
"What did he want?"
"Information about you. Your weaknesses, your history, people you might care about. I told him to fuck off, naturally."
I can picture it, my father, twenty years older but still carrying himself like the hard man he used to be, facing down Trace in some prison visiting room. Two predators sizing each other up.
"Did you tell him anything?"
"Nothing useful. I told him you were a good kid who deserved better than the life I gave you. That seemed to frustrate him."
"But?"
"But, son, this man... there's something wrong with him. Something dangerous. He talked about you like you'd killed his family, like this was personal beyond business."
"It's complicated."
"Always is with our kind of business. But, Freddie, you need to be careful. This man, he's not stable. He asked questions about things that happened when you were a kid, things no stranger should know."
A chill runs down my spine. "Like what?"
"Your mother's death. How old you were when she died, how it affected you. Personal stuff, intimate stuff. Said he was building a complete picture of what makes you tick."
Christ. Trace has been researching me, probably for months. Digging into my past, my relationships, my psychological profile. Looking for ways to break me before he kills me.
"He asked about your first arrest too. Wanted to know if you blamed me for ending up on the streets so young."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that was between you and me. None of his fucking business."
My father's voice carries echoes of the man he used to be; protective, violent when threatened, loyal to family even when family wanted nothing to do with him.
"Da, I'm handling it."
"Are you? Because this man seemed to think he had ways of hurting you that you hadn't considered. He kept asking about your emotional attachments; people you might sacrifice yourself for."
The words hit like ice water. Trace isn't just planning to kill me; he's planning to torture me first. To use everyone I care about as weapons against me.
Tríona. He's thinking about Tríona.
"He mention anyone specific?"
"No names. But he was very interested in whether you'd ever been in love, whether you had family you'd die to protect. I told him you were too smart to let emotions make you vulnerable."
"And?"
"And he laughed. Said everyone has weaknesses, even the smart ones. Said love makes men stupid, makes them take risks they shouldn't take."
Silence stretches between us, fifteen years of distance and resentment crackling through the phone line. But underneath it, there’s something else. Something that might be concern, might be the ghost of paternal instinct.
"I'm sorry," my father says finally.
"For what?"
"For everything. For the drinking, the violence, for choosing crime over family. For ending up in here instead of being there when you needed me."
The words hit harder than they should. I've been carrying anger toward this man for fifteen years, using it as fuel, as motivation. Now he's apologizing, and I don't know what to do with that.
