Page 19 of Among the Sins of my Father

“But where?” she presses. “And why didn’t you come back?”

I smile through tears. “I did come back.” I hold my hands to the side and attempt to laugh. “See? I’m here.”

She nods, considering the information and then turns on her little heels and leaves.

I don’t hold back my tears once she’s gone. I allow myself to collapse to the ground and let them fall freely. I sob. Giant, gut-wrenching sobs that I try to stifle, but it’s pointless.

“Are you okay?”

The voice startles me. I lift my eyes to find Berkley peering at me, concern framing her eyes.

“It’s you,” I say coldly, pulling myself up off the floor and wiping my tears away. Somehow it seems worse that she is the one to witness my breakdown.

She points behind her. “I was over there. I didn’t mean to interfere.”

She’s too doe-eyed and young, nothing like I thought Jericho would go for. Her hair is thick and long and lush. Her body is that of a dancer, elongated, graceful, defined. She’s wearing one of his shirts. It’s over-sized and hangs down to the middle of her thighs. Her legs are bare. Her feet are covered in small white socks.

An undeniable surge of hatred swells within my chest. I don’t hate her because he loves her. I hate her because of who she is. Whose daughter she is. I hate that she was free when I was not. That she got to dance with my daughter and hold her hand when I couldn’t.

My eyes drop to the rolled-up newspaper she’s clutching in her hands. I can only read part of the headline. Murder-Suicide.

“I stole it before it got to Jericho.” She sort of waves the paper and gives an uneasy chuckle. “He likes to read his news pressed in ink.”

She talks as though I don’t know him. And I suppose I don’t anymore, not like she does, but I still can’t help the annoyance that creeps inside me just at the sight of her. Jericho and I never loved each other. Not like that. But he’s still part of my family. A part I want to protect.

She’s uncomfortable with the silence between us. She moves closer, coming to sit on the overstuffed chair in front of me. She tucks her knees to her chest and hugs them.

“It’s strange to think we lived in the same house and never met.”

I close my eyes and try to think of her there. I wonder what sort of a man she knew my master to be. Was he the same with his family as he was with us? Was he arrogant and conceited? Did he consider himself a god? Did he ever show his violent side?

I can tell how much the silence is getting to her, so I merely shuffle across the floor until my back is pressed to one of the chairs. I keep looking at her expectantly without saying a word. It unnerves her. I enjoy it.

“Did you know my mother?” she asks finally. When I still don’t reply, she adds more as if to prompt me. “Lily. She often talked about Iris. That was you, wasn’t it?”

I haven’t heard that name in a long time and it brings back waves of emotion. I steel myself against them, focusing on the part of information I didn’t know. “Lily is your mother?”

She nods eagerly, pleased to have found one subject we can bond over. “She was rescued during the police raid. I never knew who he really was until that day. I didn’t know he was my father and I didn’t know he was a monster.”

I swallow the knot of pain in my throat. Lily is free. The news both fills me with joy but also with self-pity.

Berkley adjusts herself on her seat. “She told me that in some sort of fucked-up way, she thought he loved her.” She picks at her socks. “Do you think he loved you too?”

“He isn’t capable of love.”

“I’m sorry,” she’s quick to say, noting the vehemence in my tone. “I didn’t mean to imply…” she lets her voice fall away.

“I’ve fantasized about his death.” I watch her intently as I say it, waiting for her affection for the man to shine through, but she remains impassive. “I’ve imagined wrapping my fingers around his throat and just squeezing and squeezing until his face turns purple and he finally just stops breathing.” She still doesn’t react, so I push some more. “I’ve imagined running a knife up his veins.” I demonstrate with my fingers against my skin, following the lines of scars that are already there. She flinches and a small flicker of satisfaction burns within me. “I’d just sit back and watch him bleed to death. I’d stand over him as the blood drained from his body and spilled into the dirt where it belongs.”

Her skin pales. It’s as though I’ve triggered some sort of memory. Her gaze falls to the newspaper still clutched in her hand. Part of the photo beneath the headline is visible now. It’s the face of Aaron Keating. She closes her eyes and counts to five under her breath.

“What are they saying?”

Her eyes spring open. They take a few moments to focus on me, as though she was far away and attempting to pull herself back. She holds out the paper.

“Attempted murder-suicide.”

“Attempted?” I question, scanning the small text beneath the photo.

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