Page 45 of Among the Sins of my Father

My father tuts. “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.”

I shove the entire thing into my mouth, not caring when I have to chew with my mouth open and crumbs fall out. Michael laughs. Apparently, this is funny.

“Do you know where he is?” Mary’s voice is quiet when she speaks but it’s barely controlled. There’s a vibration to it. Almost a quivering.

“I believe she’s talking to you,” Michael says as he slathers butter onto his fruit toast.

“Where who is?” I ask, lifting my chin and my eyes to look at her.

She stays hidden behind the hair that shields her face. “My Dommie.”

A thick wedge of guilt rises in my throat.

“He told me about you.” She tosses her head and for a moment, her hair is swayed to the side, her scars on full display. I can’t help but stare at them. They are jagged and rough, as though they couldn’t afford the plastic surgery to correct them. “He trusted you. He thought you were his friend and now he’s out there somewhere, scared and alone, running for his life.”

“He’s as cowardly as his father,” Mr Gorman says, joining in on the conversation for the first time. “I warned you not to marry that man. It’s nobody’s fault other than your own that he’s got his father’s spineless blood running through his veins.”

Mary lowers her eyes again. The muscles in her arms flex as her hands clench and unclench in her lap. “He’s a good boy.”

“Is that so?” Gorman taunts. Then he turns his attention to me. “Did you know it was Dominic who alerted me to your presence in the city?”

I reach for another pastry. “So Michael said.”

“It was he who informed me that you were leaving to work for the infamous Mr Priest, a name I’d heard of before but had very little interest in until it resurfaced involving you. Really, it was you that brought him to our attention.”

“Pleased I could help,” I spit sarcastically.

“Dommie would have never held that girl in the bunker if you hadn’t told him to.” Again, Mary speaks so quietly it’s hard to hear her. She darts a glance at the head of the table before lowering her gaze. “He was a good kid. He would have never wanted to hurt anyone.”

I stop chewing. It’s painful to swallow my mouthful but I need to do it before I choke. “You told him to take Hope?”

Gorman lifts his glass of orange juice and drinks deeply before answering. “I was suspicious of the intentions of your Mr Priest. Turns out I had a right to be. Hope was a safety net in case anything went wrong. Your father went missing days later when we’d worked so hard to set him free. It seemed odd that this would be a coincidence, considering the history of the relationship. Of course, it helped that the boy was so easily swayed. He got his father’s genes in both the brains and cowardice department.”

“Very forward-thinking of you, Gorman,” my father pipes up.

Mary’s chair scrapes across the ground again. “I won’t sit here and listen to you talk about my son like that, or his father. His dead father. Priest and his side-kick may have been the ones to control the blade that killed him, but you were the one who sent them there. I will never forget that!”

Gorman chuckles. It’s the same laugh as his son’s. “Oh, calm down Mary, and eat some food. No wonder your husband went elsewhere looking for someone to fuck. With a face and a personality like yours, it makes sense he was hardly ever home.”

A giant sob is wrenched from Mary’s lip. It’s the loudest sound she’s made since we walked in. Her chair tips to the ground as she scurries away, her hand hovering protectively at her side.

Mrs Gorman shakes her head sadly. “Do you have to be so cruel to your own sister?” She covers her husband’s hand with her own.

“You know the woman just as well as I do. There’s not a lot we can do to help her. Besides, I’ve given her what she wanted ever since she found out Keating was fucking the girl. And now I’ve given her the kid.”

chapter seventeen

BERKLEY

It’s late at night when there’s a knock at my door. Well, Michael’s door. Even though I’m apparently allowed to roam about the house of my free will, I’ve holed myself away in his room, not wanting to engage with any of the monsters who carry on as though all this is normal.

It’s been days since I’ve seen or heard anything of Ette. Apparently, she’s here in the house. Somewhere. I just don’t know where.

I keep waiting for Jericho to appear at the door, demanding my release, but he doesn’t come. Maybe he doesn’t even know I’m here. Maybe he doesn’t care. I know better than to think that, but sometimes when I’m laying beside Michael as he sleeps, my mind goes to dark places.

The thing that confuses me the most, though, is my lack of flashes. They’ve stopped. Completely stopped. I don’t get the twists of nausea in my gut. I don’t get the panic attacks or the images of depravity. Part of me wonders if it’s because I’m at home here amongst the evil. Maybe darkness truly does run in my veins.

It’s Mary on the other side of the door when I open it. She stands with her eyes downcast, her hair once again shielding her face. There’s a longing to push it behind her ear, make her embrace the scars that grace her and see her stand defiant against the verbal abuse hurled at her by her brother.

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