Page 34 of Among the Sins of my Father

“She’s probably holed up somewhere, tripping on whatever high she’s addicted to at the moment.”

Barrett doesn’t say anything, merely stares at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. He doesn’t need to say anything. I already know. Retaliation was to be expected. We’re just unsure by whom.

“Drop me at the club,” I order.

Again he looks over at me but doesn’t say anything. He flicks the blinker on and takes the next turn.

“I need to make an appearance,” I answer his unasked question. “Things need to seem normal.” Barrett nods. “You keep looking and keep me informed.”

He pulls to the side of the road outside the club. Already there’s a line, waiting to be let in. They cry out in protest when I stride to the front. I guess they don’t know who I am.

The club is packed. It’s good for business, I guess, but I hate it when it’s crowded like this. Too many bodies writhing. Too many voices rising and falling. But I plaster on my smile and adjust the sunglasses slung over my pocket. They are my grounding, my reminder to be the man I portray to the world.

Barrett and I spent most of the day scouring the city for any signs of my mother. We asked in all the usual places, visited all her frequent haunts, but as yet, nothing. I expect her to be passed out somewhere, but there’s also that niggle in the back of my head. Maybe it is retaliation. Maybe Barrett’s not stupid for assuming the worst.

Pushing my way through the throng, I wave and smile to the people that call out and make my way to the back room. I must keep up the appearance I’ve always portrayed. Rich, arrogant, playboy. Too interested in gambling and partying to be of any consequence to anyone. I’ve neglected it of late, choosing instead to spend my time chasing the daughter of a monster. But I need to keep up the appearance, especially now that people may be watching more intently than they used to.

“Ah, Mr Priest,” the dealer calls out. “We’re just about to start, care to join?”

I nod as I pull out a chair and take my place at the rounded table. Familiar faces grin back at me. A national rugby player, a news anchor, a few nobodies with enough money to splurge, but there’s one new face. One I wouldn’t normally allow. The dealer sees my look of concern.

“Patrick Conway.” He nods at the man who stands and stretches his hand toward me. I don’t take it.

“Anderson vouched for him,” the dealer offers.

“How come I didn’t know about this?”

Color creeps up the dealer’s face. “Darla said she’d informed you.”

I grunt, remembering the pile of emails I’d ignored from the club’s manager the day before.

Conway sits back down. “We’ve met before, actually.”

“We have?” I keep my eyes on him as the cards are dealt. I know we’ve met, I recognized him the moment I laid eyes on him, but he doesn’t need to know that. I want him to think his presence means little to me.

“I was one of the officers who came to question you after Sebastian Atterton went missing.”

Some of the others around the table look at me suspiciously.

“Ah, yes,” I reply. “Did you ever manage to find out what happened to him?”

Conway meets my gaze unflinchingly. “It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

“Well, I’m sure if anyone were to find him, it would be you and your esteemed colleagues.” The comment earns a few chuckles. I lift the glass of whiskey that’s appeared before me. “The more the merrier. Welcome to the Black Swan.” I throw the contents of the glass down my throat and thump it back on the table. The waitress approaches to fill it again but I shake my head. I only like to give the appearance of drinking in situations like this. I don’t like to be drunk.

I throw most of my hands, letting money bleed. It keeps the others around the table happy while giving me an excuse to leave if I need to.

There’s something dubious about Conway’s presence, but throwing him out of the club, or even just the game would arouse more suspicion than I want to attract at the moment. He keeps smirking at me each time he swipes the pot from the centre of the table. It’s as though he thinks he has something over me, as though he’s winning more than just money.

“Speaking of things vanishing into thin air, has anyone been keeping up with the Keating case?”

There are a few murmurs from the group, but Conway keeps his gaze locked on me, waiting for my reaction. He likes to sit with his tongue pressed between his teeth, as though there’s laughter he’s trying to stifle. It annoys the fuck out of me, but I’m careful not to react.

“Murder-suicide, wasn’t it?” I throw some chips onto the table. “That’s what I read in the papers anyway.”

“Attempted,” Conway corrects.

Someone clucks in disapproval. “Sad story all around that one. The wife was in a car accident a few years back. Her face is all messed up from the scarring.” He winces as though picturing it. “I don’t think things have been good for them ever since. The case went to court and all. She got done for drunk driving. The other driver died and all she got was a fine.” He shakes his head.

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