by Vi Carter
Jack kicks the side of my car. I see it in his eyes. If she knew the things I had done, she would be scrambling out of the car.
“Calm down,” I tell Dana for what seems like the millionth time.
“Don’t touch him.” Her screams have retired themselves to shouts.
“It’s okay, Dana.” I pat her arm this time, and she looks at my hand before sitting back up. She’s in shock. Her eyes are wild, and she doesn’t look like my sister.
“I know someone who might be able to help us with this.” Shay speaks up, and we all focus on him.
Jack moves away from my car.
“You’ll pay for the damage.” I call after Jack as I rub my aching jaw.
“Who?” I ask Shay. “Remember, this is my sister.”
“She’s my cousin.” Shay fires back.
“Yeah, just like Cian was.” I sneer.
Dana starts to look frazzled again, and I don’t want her starting. “Who?” I ask seriously.
“Cillian O’Hara.”
“Have you fucking lost your mind?” Jack speaks up.
“I agree with Jack.” I wouldn’t let Cillian O’Hara near my baby sister.
“Who’s Cillian? And what’s he going to do to me?”
Dana’s starting to panic. “He’ll take care of you, love.” Shay’s words are meant to relax Dana; only they send her into a frenzy.
“Kill me.” She’s looking at me with wild eyes.
“He’s kind of like a bodyguard.” I try to explain Cillian’s role. He was more than that, but he had stepped away from the Republican Army at a young age. Some shit about his sister going missing had driven him away. He’s a bit older than Jack and me, but his skills are next to none.
“No one will ever find you.” Shay continues, and he isn’t helping.
“She’s not going to Cillian,” Jack protests.
“We need to keep her quiet, Jack,” I growl.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dana speaks up like she has a choice. When she looks at me, her eyes narrow with anger. “I came to you for help.” She shakes her head.
“You have a better idea, Jack?” I ask.
He looks horrified as he rises. “No. I don’t.”
Dana starts to cry. “Please don’t do this. I don’t want to go away.”
Shay crunches the cigarette under his boot as he waits for an answer. Who else would I trust with my baby sister? There is no one, and she needs to keep quiet. I look at Dana as fresh tears pour down her face.
“Please, Richard. I won’t tell anyone.” Her words ring true to me. But tomorrow, when she’s feeling better, or in a week’s time when she’s at a party and had too much to drink, her moral compass will switch on. I can’t risk that happening.
I glance at Shay and nod my head for him to make the call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CLAIRE
The brush glides across the canvas. I’m almost finished when Mario arrives with sandwiches and some tea on a large silver tray.
“I’m sure you’re hungry.” He always carries a smile with his words. I like Mario.
“Starving,” I say as he sets the tray down on the sideboard. I stand back and take in the picture I’ve been painting the last few hours. My mother’s blue eyes stare back at me. Her blonde hair is swept over her shoulder.
“She’s beautiful.” Mario compliments the painting from behind me.
“She was.” I have the urge to touch her face. My fingers tighten around the paintbrush. Some days my mother would pass the day away in the kitchen baking bread and cakes for us. The classical music would float out the window, accompanied by the smell of warm bread. Stepping in the back door, I often thought how beautiful she was, with her flushed cheeks, messy appearance and her smile. She was happy. We were happy.
“Did she pass away?” Mario asks.
I turn away from the agony I’m feeling while looking at the picture and face Mario, tucking all my emotions neatly away in their box. “Three years ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” His head dips as he gives me his condolences. The look in Mario’s eyes I’ve seen before, he’s waiting for the explanations of how she died or how her death made me feel.
“Thank you.” I return my attention to the painting, ending our conversation. Mario leaves me. I hold the brush to her cheek and brush a little more pink. She looks happy, she almost looks real. I hate it.
My fingers itch to remove the canvas, but my thoughts won’t go away if I do. It’s like I’ll be stuck in reverse if I don’t keep pushing forward. So, I select a smaller and finer paint brush and dip the bristles into a dark gray, and do something that isn’t true to her memory. I give my mother a pair of earrings. She never wore them. I can’t recall one time I saw a pair in her ears. My soul lifts as I paint, and I get lost in the motions of the brush. My thoughts cease, and all there is is the color that bleeds across the pages as I give her a red cardigan instead of the beige one she truly loved and wore daily. I hadn’t planned to paint my mother, yet here she is coming to life on the page, only now with my small changes I don’t really recognize her.
The lies we tell ourselves. It’s her eyes. Nothing could ever take away from her eyes. I resist touching her again. It’s only paper, I remind myself as I step away. Her eyes follow me, and I feel the full weight of them. Her gaze is too heavy on me, so I put the paint brush down and turn my back on my mother.
The tea is ready to be poured, and I make myself a cup and bring it with me to the window to see if Connor is close to the garage where his food dish often is. I glance out the large window, but I don’t see him. He’s been racing around the backyard most of the morning, and seeing him might ease my nerves, but I don’t see him as I walk the full length of the window.
There are moments in life, and they can be tiny, so very tiny. Some are unforgiving that they bleed into our memories, painting one moment red.
Red moments often break us, like I consider the moment when my parents died one. But really, the red moments are in the before. It was in the strike of Leonard’s match that is the tiny, unforgiving moment.
As I continue to scan the garden for Connor, a tiny moment happens again. Only this time, it’s the creak of the door. I turn, and before I even see him, I know something isn’t right. That everything is wrong.
The cup falls from my fingertips. It makes no sound as it shatters across the floor. The roar of my blood is all I hear. Nothing else as Leonard steps into the room. Liquid scorches my leg, and the sounds come crashing back. My stomach lurches as he looks around the room.
He can’t really be here. He passes the picture of Mother, and his face hardens before he picks it up.
It’s still wet. She’s still flushed. He is hurting her all over again. “Please don’t.” I find my voice.
He turns to me, and with nothing but death in his eyes, he tears it in two.
“Leonard.” I plead as the image floats to the floor. I’m not sure what I’m pleading for, the painting or my life.
“So this is where you have been hiding.” He takes a step closer to me.
I’ve never felt so small as I shake my head. “Please,” I beg.
His fingers dig into my face as he reaches for me. “Please what, Claire? My sister.”
My face aches from the tightness of his hands.
“You’re a whore.” He shoves me back, and I stumble toward the glass window.
His words burn not just my cheeks but my soul. He looks around the room. “So this is what it costs to sleep with my sister.”
“Stop it!” I bark.
Leonard’s eyes swing toward me. His gaze makes me shiver, and his face turns stoic as his gaze lands on my neck. “He’s been hurting you.”
I shiver as he returns to me and yanks my neck to the side painfully. The bite mark from Richard is still very much visible. I try to cover it. “It’s nothing.”
My fingers are pried away. “What the fuck. The sick mother fucker.” He releases my neck.
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How did you find me? What are you doing here? How did you get out of the asylum? They are all the questions that race through my mind. Yet, I say nothing, only watch him as he continues to move around the room. His fingers run along the sideboard, and he knocks over my paint brushes. Paper flutters to the floor and is accompanied by pots of paint. His destruction makes no sense.
“You don’t seem happy to see me,” he says. He picks up a tube of red paint and opens it. As he walks to me, he squeezes the bottle onto the window and draws a long red line.
He stops when he reaches me. “What was the name of our fish?”
The question throws me off. Leonard holds up the tube of paint and squirts the remainder down the front of my red blouse. A blob falls off my top and lands on the floor. Everything in me quivers. “Leonard.” Fear keeps the volume of my voice low.
“Answer me!” His roar makes me jump.
“Oscar.” I clutch my blouse like I might be able to keep myself standing.
“Oscar.” Leonard laughs and turns away from me.
My body sags, and as I blink, tears fall. I need to get away from him.
“How many minutes?”
The air halts in my lungs as he picks up a handful of paint brushes off the floor. They are only paintbrushes, but they seem deadly in his hands. “How many minutes did Oscar live?”
“Fifty-one minutes.” It was a stupid goldfish. They don’t have long life spans, anyway. But Leonard had me sit and watch for fifty-one minutes. Oscar had flapped, and his small mouth had opened and closed for air. At moments I had thought he was dead, but the small fish would gasp again. Leonard had sat with me, enjoying each twisted second. I was glad when the fish finally died.
Leonard waggles his fingers at me. My focus still snagged on the paintbrushes. “Stupid fucking creatures. They really have no purpose.”
At least they aren’t cruel. They had more purpose than Leonard will ever have. I curl in on myself as he hurls a paintbrush at me. The impact I feel, but the paintbrush will do nothing more than leave a bruise. I turn to the side as he continues to throw them at me.
“You left me,” he finally says.
He has no more brushes to throw because they are all at my feet.
“You left me in there to rot.” He’s in my face; his fingers squeeze my cheek. “You’re a sorry excuse for a sister.” He pushes me, and my head collides with the wall behind me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you lying?” His hand rams into my shoulder, sending me back into the wall again. “I hate a fucking liar.”
“I’m not lying. I was kidnapped.”
Leonard’s laugh is maniacal. “You don’t look like you have it too bad.” Leonard becomes transfixed by the red paint on the window. He runs his fingers through it before returning to me. He presses his fingers across my cheek; the feel of the paint on my face has me turning away from him.
“Did he touch you?”
The question has bile crawling up my throat. There is no right answer to this. Leonard has never touched me, but it’s in his eyes a sickness that I try to run from.
His hand tightens on my wrist, and he slams me back against the wall. His fingers squeeze on my arm. The wound along my wrist is healed, but he must feel the slightly raised skin on my wrists as he yanks my sleeve up.
Surprise isn’t something I’ve ever seen in Leonard’s eyes before. “You did this?”
I yank my arm back, feeling a bit braver. “Yes.”
“What about me?” Real sorrow fills his eyes.
He’s sick. Twisted.
“What about you?” I fire back. “You burnt our parents alive.” My heart races in my chest. I said it. I finally said what he did.
“You are still yapping on about that.”
My throat burns, but so does the blood in my veins at the injustice of his words. “That? You murdered our parents!”
He shrugs. “I was sick of them.”
He’s truly twisted. He needs help.
“I can’t believe you were going to leave me here alone.” He waves his free hand around the room before his fingers run along the scar. There is nothing caring about his touch, and I try to pull my arm back with no success.
His hand tightens, and he takes a knife out of his pocket.
“Leonard.” I plead and start to pull out of his hold.
“We could go together.”
I’m shaking my head, pleading with my eyes and words. “I don’t want to go. I’m happy here.” I blink, and more tears spill.
“You don’t look happy to me.” Leonard tilts his head.
There is nothing, nothing in his eyes, nothing expressed on his face. All I sense is a burn, like the heat of the fire the day my parents died. Warm liquid splashes on my barefoot, and I blink, my brain refusing to register what’s happening. Leonard releases my arm, and the pain increases. I know I’m bleeding. There’s so much blood. The room tilts, and I slide down the wall.
“No.” I swallow the darkness and grip my arm.
Leonard meets me on the floor and pushes the hair out of my face. “Shhh. It will be okay.”
I’m looking into blue eyes that are not like mine or my mother’s. They are too cruel, too harsh, too menacing to be anything like my mother.
“I hate you.” I manage to say as I tighten my hand on my arm. “You disgust me.”
His lips curl back, and he’s shaking his head. “You’re confused. Don’t say those things.” He’s rubbing my hair.
“You’re disgusting.” I sob.
He drags me to his chest while stroking my hair. “Stop.” He keeps repeating. The air grows too thin, and I reach for his hand that holds the knife. He’s too caught up in comforting me to even consider me getting the knife. I pull it from his loose fingers, and surprise has him jumping back.
I roar, the adrenaline pumping fast around my body as I lash out, and the sinking feeling churns my stomach as the knife cuts through flesh and embeds itself into his side.
Shock widens his eyes. I barrel past him and hold my arm as I run from the room.
“Help me!” Each doorway I pass is empty. I blink as the world tilts again, and I hit the ground hard. Where is everyone? “Mario!” I scream and get back up. Looking over my shoulder, Leonard has exited the art room. He pulls the knife out of his side. I’m scrambling off the ground. If I don’t get up, I’ll die. I half run, half hobble until I reach the kitchen. The floor is slick with blood. My bare feet can’t find traction in the pool of blood and they are ripped out from under me. I hit the tiled floor hard. The air leaves my lungs. I’m expecting to see Mario or a security man dead on the floor, but it’s neither. It’s Connor. My dog is still, on his side; he’s unmoving.
Leonard appears over me, but no air enters my lungs. I’m staring at Connor’s still form, searching for a flicker of life that I don’t see. A foot lands on my chest, and my hands automatically grip Leonard’s boot. I didn’t want to die like this.
Air slowly filters in, my chest protests in pain, and I sputter as I look up at my brother.
I want to beg him not to do this, but words fail me as air becomes my number one priority. Oxygen slowly starts to trickle in, and I manage to squeeze out a word. “Please.”
His foot leaves my chest as he grips his side. He’s looking at his hands, which are coated in blood, before his gaze swings back to me. His blue eyes build with a storm, and his foot rises. I could close my eyes, but I don’t. His foot doesn’t slam into my face like I’m expecting. It hovers above me.
“Killing her isn’t part of the plan yet.”
Leonard’s foot touches the floor. My scalp burns as he stands on my hair. I know that voice. I’m rolling my head, trying to see behind me. The bald man, Davy, steps into the kitchen. That’s how Leonard got into Richard's home. That’s why no other security is around.
Davy’s gaze skims me as he takes a step towards Connor.
“What the fuck did you do to the dog?” Davy’s more outraged abou
t the dog than me, but I’m trying to get up. Leonard’s heavy boot lands on my chest again, stopping me from rising. The room spins. I’ve lost too much blood. The pool under me is a mix of mine and Connor’s. I tilt my head, so I can see Davy, who is kneeling next to Connor.
“Is he alive?” I ask, closing my eyes to fight off the wave of dizziness.
I open my eyes when he doesn’t answer. He’s no longer beside Connor but standing next to Leonard. “Killing the fucking dog wasn’t part of the plan.”
Leonard removes his foot from my chest, and I drag in more air.
“What are you going to do?” Leonard sneers and steps up to Davy.
Connor is dead. My heart cracks, and the loss feels physical. They continue to argue about the plan, and Leonard pushes Davy, sending him sprawling onto the floor. I turn on my belly, and the hallway appears before me. I drag my body. The pain in my arm is nearly mind-numbing, but I need to get out of here. Davy has taken Leonard to the ground, and as they fight, I manage to get to the door frame and use it to pull myself up. My arm is still bleeding, and the weakness in my body scares me. I try to push the fear aside and keep moving. The walls keep moving, they keep shifting, and each time they smack into me, I bite my lip, so I don’t cry out in pain. The front door is growing closer with each tiny step, and I force my body to move faster. The wall hits me harder each time, but I know staying upright is all that matters now. If I fall again, I don’t think I’ll ever get back up. I glance over my shoulder to see Leonard and Davy still in the thick of their fistfight. Neither of them has noticed I’m missing.
I face forward, my legs still, and whatever was keeping me up no longer exists as hope and freedom disappear, and in its place stands Liam.
Richard's Father.
The noise of the altercation behind me ceases, and footfalls sound behind me, but I don't look away from Liam.
“It’s unfortunate it has to end this way, Claire.” His monotone terrifies me. “Pick her up.”
Hands touch my arms. Davy and Leonard drag me to my feet.
“You nearly cost me my son.” Liam takes a step towards me. “Don’t worry, Claire. This will be all over soon.”
