Page 44 of Among the Sins of my Father

Michael reaches out to stroke my cheek. I let him.

“Did you think it was just a random encounter? You’re so sweet. Nothing is random in the world of our fathers. This was always meant to be, you and me.” He tucks my hair behind one ear and trails his finger over my cheek until it catches on my bottom lip. “I wish I’d been able to see you dance.”

He’s silent for a while, just stroking my face as he stares into my eyes. It takes a lot out of me to lay by his side. To not move. To not shove him away. To not lash out with nails and teeth.

“Did you love him?” he asks quietly.

I know who he’s talking about, but I don’t answer. Michael just smiles sadly. “It’s okay if you did. It doesn’t matter. You’re with me now.”

“I’m not with you.”

“Not yet. But you will be.”

Sitting up, he tosses the blankets off us. I’m dressed back in my old t-shirt. I like the familiarity of it. I like that it smells faintly of Jericho.

He scans over me with his gaze. Two lines press between his brows. “I’ll send Maggie out to do some shopping for you today. We can’t have you living in discarded clothing now, can we?”

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

He snorts. “You make it sound as though I’m keeping you captive.”

“You are.”

“Sure.” He grins. “I know a lot of women who would love to be where you are right now.”

“Well, maybe you should go find one of them.”

Michael clambers off the bed. He’s dressed in nothing but briefs and I can’t help but notice the way his body has filled out since I last saw him in a similar state of undress. His chest is bigger, his waist narrower. He must have spent a lot of time at the gym.

“Come on.” He pats my leg. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

After pulling on the summery dress once again, I follow Michael down the stairs. The Gormans’ house reminds me of Dominic’s place. Everything is white and sleek, accented with black and gold. It’s cold and unwelcoming, but at the same time, fresh and clean and screaming of wealth.

He leads me out to the patio where there’s a table laden with every breakfast food imaginable. Mr Gorman sits at the head of the table, my father to one side and Mrs Gorman to the other. A woman sits to my father’s left, but I don’t recognize her until she glances my way. And then her scars make it obvious.

Her eyes widen when she spots me. “You.” She says the word with venom.

“Now, now, Mary. Let’s make her feel welcome in our home.”

Mary gets to her feet, the legs of her chair scraping across the tiles. She stands, half bent over, clutching at her stomach. “I will not welcome her. Not now. Not ever. This girl did nothing to help me when two men stormed into my home, killed my husband, shot me and left me for dead. She is evil. She is—”

Michael claps his hands slowly. “We seem to be surrounded by hysterical women. Anything you’d like to add, Mother? Maybe some government conspiracy thrown into the mix? Some war on feminist agenda?”

He laughs as Mary lowers herself back to her chair, her eyes hidden behind a veil of hair. I take my seat opposite her, next to Michael. He grabs my hand and places it on his knee, gripping my fingers tightly.

“Everly, my dear,” my father croons. “Did you sleep well?”

I feel as though I’ve stumbled into a sitcom. There’s a surreal feeling cast over the atmosphere. It’s like no one can see the television cameras apart from me. They act normally. They act as though nothing is strange or unusual.

Mr Gorman sits at the head of the table, stuffing his face with food as he glares at the newspaper folded on the table in front of him. He’s distracted from what’s going on around him. His entire focus is held by what he’s reading.

My father isn’t interested in the newspaper. His eyes skip from person to person, a twisted and satisfied smirk on his face.

Mary sits with her head down, her hands in her lap. She’s not eating. She’s not doing anything. But it’s almost as though I can feel the heat of her anger radiating across the table. I don’t blame her. She begged me to help her and I merely watched as she was led to what was intended to be her death.

Mrs Gorman is oblivious to it all. She eats absent-mindedly, crumbling a muffin between her fingers and lifting the morsels to her lips every so often. She stares into space, eyes vacant. To look at, she reminds me of my father’s wife, Katriane. Severely beautiful but instead of Katrine’s sharp tongue and quick wit, there’s nothing but emptiness to her personality.

Ignoring my father, I reach for one of the pastries on the table.

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