Page 23 of Sins He Taught Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 3)

Victoria

Dad’s slowly starting to get better, but for some reason, he insists that I stay near him. The doctors let him leave the hospital a few days after his attack, so for the past few weeks, he’s been calling me every day, asking if I can take care of one problem or another.

At first, I didn’t mind the constant trips. I could’ve lost him that night. I’m still not over the fear.

But it’s been three weeks since the attack and from what I can see, he’s mostly healed up and feeling better. When I’m around and looking after him, he acts mildly helpless, always asking me to hand him the remote or make something for dinner.

And yet, if I stand in the kitchen and watch him from a distance, I can see that he’s perfectly capable of doing things he pretends he can’t.

It’s frustrating, but I don’t bring it up to him. Maybe this is some sort of codependency thing. Maybe the attack shook him up and he’s scared that if I leave him, he’ll be vulnerable to another group of thugs roughing him up.

Or maybe he’s just milking me for all my time and energy so I’ll take care of him and he won’t have to lift a finger.

I try to keep my bitterness toned down as I wander through the grocery store picking up things that I’ll need for the next few days. I stop to pick out a box of pasta.

I love my dad, I do, but he brings chaos to my life, and right now, I want to keep a clear head. I’ll be starting law school soon enough, and I can’t keep running back to check in on him while I’m studying for exams.

Eventually, I’m going to have to cut the umbilical cord, so to speak. I’m already anticipating the fit he’ll throw when I finally work up the courage to stop helping him so much.

I continue through the grocery store. I grab a bag full of tomatoes and a carton of strawberries. When I make it to the junk food aisle, I stop and grab his favorite chips. As I do, I glance over to see two boys bickering with each other. Their mother tries to shush them, but they end up getting louder, practically screaming at her. She looks worn down and exhausted.

I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be in her shoes. I’ve always loved kids, and someday I want a few of my own, but every time the baby fever starts to hit, I see a situation like this: a weary-eyed woman trying and failing to wrangle her wild children. It reminds me how hard it is to be a mom.

The mother meets eyes with me and I give her a sympathetic smile. She seems to appreciate it because she returns the gesture before scolding her children in that hushed, angry voice all moms seem to have mastered.

For a moment, it feels like we’re sharing a connection. Like we both understand how it feels to wrestle stubborn little boys—her with her kids, me with my dad—through the routines of a normal day, a normal life. Like we both really get each other.

Then her husband returns from the next aisle over, and I freeze.

I recognize him. It’s the younger officer from the hospital—Officer Sharpe, I think. The one who seemed determined to keep grilling me until I cracked.

He’s one of the last men on Planet Earth I feel like talking to right now. I can still remember his searing gaze from the hospital, dancing up and down me, looking for answers I was both unwilling and unable to give.

I just want to get my goods and get outta here, ASAP. I turn my cart around to leave the aisle at the opposite end from the young cop, but when I do, I see another unwelcome sight.

There’s a man half-heartedly picking through some canned goods, and saying he looks “unfriendly” is the understatement of the year. He’s a walking D.A.R.E. commercial: hoodie pulled low over his face, dark bangs hanging in front of his eyes. Between that and the dark sunglasses he’s wearing despite the fact that we’re indoors, I can’t make out any identifying features on his face at all.

Either he’s a rock star trying to do his grocery shopping in peace, or he’s someone who really does not want to be identifiable. I shudder. The guy is radiating with bad vibes, like a nuclear reactor on the brink of collapse.

Everything about him—his clothes, his posture, the twitchiness of his hands and side-to-side glances—says Do Not Touch; Clear the Area. All the alert systems in my body go off at once.

Two men I don’t want to talk to? Time for me to evacuate the scene.

But which way to go? I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.

I decide on the lesser of two evils and spin around one more time, passing by the police officer and his family. I keep my head down and pretend to be fascinated by muffin mixes on the opposite shelves as I push past the tired Mrs. Sharpe and her screaming kids.

Just before I get out of this suddenly claustrophobic aisle from hell, I glance over my shoulder one last time.

The hoodie man is gone.

I heave a deep sigh of relief. “Woah there, nelly,”I say to myself under my breath as I head for the registers at the highest socially acceptable speed. “It’s just some Joe Schmo looking for the candy aisle. No need to get all frazzled.”

I keep repeating it like a mantra, even though I really don’t believe a word I’m saying. Way too much heinous stuff has gone down in my world in the last little while to not interpret this as yet another bad omen.

But he’s gone, and no matter how much I keep looking around, head on a swivel, he doesn’t reappear. Well, thank God for small favors, I guess.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should be prescribed something to calm me down. Lately, everything’s been putting me on edge. It wouldn’t hurt just to get away from this place, go on vacation, and pretend my worries don’t exist.

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