Page 53 of Daughter of a Monster

I’m freezing by the time the police leave, but I don’t admit it to Jericho. I’m sure my lips are turning blue, but I hold myself defiantly, determined not to show my trembling. It’s petty and stupid but I’m past caring.

As soon as the police car pulls away, I try to shove my way past Jericho and Barrett, but Jericho grips my arm.

“We need to talk.” His voice is a low rumble, just like the thunder in the background.

“Let me go.” I wrench myself from his grasp and run back out into the rain. My head feels too full. Too confused. It’s like there’s a puzzle inside my mind, all the pieces are there but they’re floating freely and I’m unable to place them together.

Seeing the way Jericho changed in front of the police unsettled me. It was as though he became someone else. Someone who smiled instead of scowled, who spoke with a grin rather than a growl. If it is so easy for him to slip on another skin, how can I trust anything he says?

I don’t notice the rain as I run back to the gazebo by the pond. Everything is as I left it. The swans still float effortlessly across the water, undeterred by the downpour. The storm still rages. The Sanctuary still stands in defiance.

As I look back, a lone figure stalks through the rain. His head is tilted down, but his eyes are fixed on me intently. Every inch of him bristles with annoyance.

“Come back inside,” he orders as soon as he gets close.

I sit on the bench that surrounds the enclosure and cross my arms.

“You’re soaking wet. You’re going to get sick.”

“I’ll go inside when I want to go inside.” I don’t look at him as I speak. I don’t want to. There’s something about looking at him that makes him harder to defy. It’s as though everything inside actually wants me to obey. He ducks his head as he walks into the shelter and takes a seat beside me. The rain has drenched his clothing as well and I can’t help but notice the way his shirt clings to his skin.

I cross my arms tighter and tilt myself away from him. I fix my gaze on the swans but all they do is remind me of the tattoo that covers his back.

“Are you okay?” his voice is softer this time.

“I’m fine.”

He chuckles. “Fine, huh?”

“Yes, fine,” I say through gritted teeth, risking a glance back at him.

Through the open nape of his shirt, the feathers from the fight of the swans dance across his skin. I’m not sure how the artist made them look as though they are moving, but it’s almost as though they float across his flesh.

Reaching over, Jericho tips my chin and my eyes move to his face. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

“Why do you care?” I know I sound like an insolent child, but I don’t care. He’s the one who has been blowing hot and cold and leaving me confused.

He does nothing but stare at me. I fight the surge of emotion that threatens to spill, but it’s useless. There’s something about the depth of his stare that I simply can’t hide from.

My eyes well with tears.

My bottom lip begins to tremble.

I don’t want another episode to overwhelm me, so I try to stay strong, drawing in a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and pulling my chin away from his touch.

“How long have you known?” I say as soon as I’ve got control of my voice.

“Since the start.” He doesn’t lie this time. “It must be hard living with the knowledge of what he did.”

I snort. “It’s not like I knew.” Already my defences are rising. I know what he’ll be thinking. What they all think. My tears vanish and the familiar feeling of judgement snakes through me.

But Jericho’s tone is so gentle, something inside me thaws a little. “I never thought you did.”

My old life swirls to the front of my mind. That’s how I picture myself. Swirling and twirling blissfully through life. Eyes closed to all that was going on around me. Wrapped up so entirely in my own life, my own insignificant troubles, that I couldn’t see the evil staring me in the face.

I sigh. “My brother tried to warn me, the good one, I mean.” As though they can be divided like that. The good and the bad. The virtuous and the evil. “He worked for him, was basically his right-hand man. He was my father’s Barrett.”

I don’t talk about my family much. It’s too messed up. They’re too messed up. To explain everything that happened, how it happened, why it happened, would be impossible. It would be easy to divide them into two. The victims and the abusers, the angels and the demons, but nothing is that simple. And I’m caught in the middle, sharing the blood of both.

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