Page 185 of Beautiful Scars

“You can’t trust someone like him, Meisie. He’s a criminal, a thief, a liar.”

“Most people aren’tonlygood andonlybad. The man simply has a different set of morals—and for a good reason. He’s also kind, and just, and…”

“And what?”

I still can’t say it. Is it because then it would be real and I couldn’t fool myself anymore?

“And what, Meisie?” She narrows her eyes, as if daring me to confess those three words. Would it change anything? She loved my father once, and now look at them. There would be an explosion to rival Hiroshima if they were ever forced into a room with each other. She’s become jaded, and suspicious of men. Perhaps all relationships, mine included.

“We’re here,” the driver announces, and I swear I’m not imagining the relief in his voice.

Mom sags a little, and then straightens in her seat.

Honestly, I’m a little relieved too. My brain is a cocktail of emotions right now. Trying to decipher which of those feelings belong to Cillian, or Grace, or Alex would take more than a trained therapist and a few hundred hours on her suede couch.

The car pulls into the driveway of a large freestanding house with a big sign up front.

This is it.

The place my baby calls home.

My chest tightens when I see the rainbow pictures stuck up on the window. Does she like to paint? I always loved to paint when I was a kid.

The driver gets out and goes over to the intercom while Mom and I wait in the car.

Now that we’re here and it’s inevitable that I’ll be seeing Grace—Maddie—I’m suddenly not that worried. Trish taught me that. If something is out of my control, I should do my best not to focus on it. Rather, concentrate on what I can control.

And Ihadplanned to come here. I’d been about to take charge of my life, finally. Right before my mother had me kidnapped, I was going to change. I was going to stop being a victim.

No. I’m here anyway, about to see my daughter. About to find out if, in fact, she still has all ten fingers and toes.

The fact that I had wanted to share this moment with Kill shouldn’t matter.

It’s ridiculous. And pathetic. And I need to focus on the things that I can control, right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to persuade my mother not to prosecute Cillian, but Maddie deserves better than me focusing on that right now when I should be focusing on her.

The driver comes back to the car, and Mom winds down the window for him.

“There...seems to be a problem.”

* * *

“What do you mean, she’s gone?”

I flinch at Mom’s voice, and so does Anne-Marie. The woman holds up her hands. “He had a gun.”

It feels like someone pours a bucket of ice-cold water over my head.

Agun?

Mom straightens, lips thinning as she tucks her arms over her chest. When she turns to me, white spots appear on her cheeks. “I don’t...” she begins in a hoarse voice.

My heart’s been pounding hard and fast ever since I set eyes on Anne-Marie’s worried face. I immediately knew something was wrong, as did Mom.

“It was Hendry,” Anne-Marie says, and not very reluctantly either. “He had a gun. Threatened to burn the place to the ground if I didn’t hand her over.”

If I had a bobby pin, and I dropped it, you’d probably have been able to hear it landing on the fucking carpet.

I’ve never compared myself with my mother until right now. Because the voice that comes out of me could easily be the same one she uses when she’s addressing someone’s monumental fuck up in her office.