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I crack a grin. "Try some Motley Crue, then."
A cereal commercial flashes up on the TV. Usual American Pie scenario: pretty blond Stepford mom, dad in a mid-priced business suit. Two kids in clean, bright clothes gorge on Disney Bullshit Puffs amid a dripping sea of milk. Mom fusses, Dad's in a rush—why the hell are TV fathers never at work on time? I'd fire him.
Ash is strangely glued to this farce. "I don't have a mama," he says matter-of-factly.
I swallow. "You have one. She's just not here."
"She went to heaven."
"Uhuh."
Ethan shifts about uncomfortably. I know Ash rarely asks about Mom; he's told me.
"I don't have a Dad, either," says Ash. "Do I?"
"You've got a father," I correct. "It's not the same thing. Remember?"
"No," he mumbles, looking glum.
"Besides. You have an awesome uncle and an awesome nanny." I poke him gently in the ribs. "And we have awesome times together."
"Yeah. But I think I'd like a mama."
Ethan winces; I shake my head and shrug in a whaddaya-gonna-do? fashion.
Ash's father is almost certainly dead. There was no confirmation of the fact other than the last person to see him was my mother, and there's never been a word from him since—I couldn't find anything. Technically, Ash was fatherless before he was even born; by the time his second birthday rolled around, he was newly orphaned.
Nobody gave a shit. Just palmed him off to me without question. Lore Incorporated was still a start up; my hours were crazy; I wasn't the media's favourite person at the time. But hey, one less kid for the state to worry about, right?
Sometimes, I don't know what would have been better: corruption via our mother, or corruption via...me. Maybe it's kinder to let him know what the world is really like early on. Ignorance is only bliss if you're ignorant.
"Any plans for the weekend?" I ask Ethan.
"Nope. Well. Just gonna take care of Mom," he says, and then catches sight of Ash and cringes, despite the fact the boy hasn't heard.
"How is she these days?"
"The meds are helping. Slowly, but they're helping. It's all you can ask for, right?"
"I told you I'd fund the surgery," I say quietly.
"I know. And I appreciate it, you have no idea." He sighs again. "She's just old, you know? She doesn't have that kind of fight in her."
"I like a little fight," I find myself murmuring.
Ethan's eyes narrow, but he says nothing.
***
Speaking of corruption: Tommy calls me on Saturday morning. I have to lock myself in the bathroom just to escape the Moshi Monsters theme.
"What?" I bark, annoyed.
"Yo, chief. I got something for ya."
"And what might that be?" Jesus Christ, these jerks and their Big Reveals. Just spit it out already—you're not being clever.
"Leo went out to breakfast and there was someone following her home," he almost whispers. "That chick you gave me the info on? Miss Fordham? I'm damn sure it was her."
I sink down to sit on the toilet. "And Leo didn't know she was there?"
"Don't think so. Fordham didn't attempt to communicate with her once—just walked a while behind."
"What happened when Leo got home?"
"Nada. Fordham just waited at the end of the block, did some shit on her phone, and left after about ten minutes. She looked upset, though. Kinda troubled."
I think back to Leo's second phone; the older-looking one. Had she just received a message from Rachel, begging her to come out...?
"Anything else?" I ask.
"That's all. Just thought you'd want to know," he says earnestly. "But I have to say—it don't look like they're friends, if you get my drift."
"Interesting."
Rachel used to follow me, once.
We all know how that ended.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Home
Aged 17
"Aeron!" Mom yells up the stairs. "That girl's outside again."
Again.
I've warned Rachel.
We can't be seen together. We're not official. Worst of all, she's oblivious to our different positions in the social hierarchy.
I don't want to tire of her. It's not conducive to my goals. And yet, more and more, I find myself tempted. Careless.
I put down my PlayStation controller and head downstairs.
"Oh, so you did hear me." Mom doesn't look up from her makeup mirror; she's perched on the edge of the mahogany dresser in the hall, half way through applying apricot lipstick. Another date tonight, then. "She's hanging out by the car. Get rid of her before I do."
Empty house. Could be useful.
I run a hand through my hair before hauling open the front door. Rachel is hunched against the side of our black Subaru. Her dark waves are scraped up into a high ponytail, wispy strands left to frame her face, and she's wearing the purple berry lipgloss I like. A novel hangs between her palms—ironically, something by Brett Easton Ellis—though she glances up as soon as she hears the door.
I stride toward her with my hands in my pockets. The evening sun is warm; it makes her cheeks flush and my skin sweat, and its mellow light frames the neat line of houses along our street in the Better Part of the Neighbourhood.
"Rache," I say in a low voice, "you've got to stop coming over like this."
She peers up at me with her blue eyes. "I just miss you sometimes, is all. And you're not busy. You're only in there—"
"How the hell do you know whether or not I'm busy?"
She recoils. "Okay, okay. Sorry. I didn't mean it."
"It's okay." I reach up to tuck her hair behind her ear. My cock thickens at the way her pupils dilate, the sight of her breasts rising and falling to my touch. Annoying or not, she has something special. Something different to the vapid bitches at school. "Listen. Can you come back later? Around eight?"
She gives an eager nod. "Yeah. I mean, I can sneak out, yeah. They'll never even know I've gone."
I raise my eyebrows. "You have a curfew now?" Frankly, I didn't realise her parents cared. They always seem to be of the let teens make mistakes so they can learn from them ilk.
"My mom saw the marks...well, you know." Her gaze drops. Shoulders slump. "She thinks I'm self-harming, so they're keeping tabs on me." A reluctant small pulls at one side of her lips. "They think I'm at the library."
"You are reading."
"Uhuh." She looks up at me through her eyelashes, her breath quickening again. "And learning."
"I'll look out for you at eight, okay?" I trail my fingertips along her bare throat. Wallow in her little sighs.
"Okay," she murmurs.
"So get lost already."
She pretends to giggle; she's nervous that I meant that maliciously.
I do.
"I can't wait for later," she tells me as she walks off.
"Me either."
Self-harm is a beautifully appropriate analogy for what I do to Rachel. And I wasn't lying just then—I can't wait to do it again.
"Aeron!" Mrs Connolly, our senior neighbour, steps out with a watering can and gives me a wave. "Hi!"
I plaster on a fake smile. "Hey, Mrs C."
"I heard you won your last game. We're all thrilled for you!"
"We do our best."
She wraps a strand of white hair around her finger. Jesus. "You take care now! Eat your vegetables!"
She thinks I'm such a nice boy. She thinks I'm walking back into the house pondering football scores and barbecue dinners.
Somewhere beyond her imagining, Rachel Fordham walks half-naked down my driveway, her thighs a grotesque tapestry of blood and cum.
#8
Predator (noun): entity at the top of the food chain. Also referred to as president, monarch, boss or parent
At just past eight o'clock on Monday morning, Leo pulls up in the car I sent for her and Tuija escorts her to the door. I watch all this from the wide stretch of window at the back of my office as news reports flicker across the glass. The ink is barely dry on our paperwork, but SilentWitn3ss is officially mine; by proxy, so is she. And she knows it. Look at her bowed head. Her reluctant steps. She doesn't want to be here, mostly—her pissy little board of directors have no doubt ripped her apart.
