Page 83 of Speak No Claim

“This greenhouse is yours, then?”

“No,” I responded.

Before I could think twice about it, I spoke another truth…

* * *

“It was my mother’s.”

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Hennessy: Remember: everyone you meet is fighting a mighty battle. Be kind. Be understanding.

“Was?” I blurted.

He nodded.

“Onyx—”

He started walking toward the flower that caught my attention the second I realized it was there. I followed him, my gaze fixated on the delicate purple petals extending off the green stems.

There were so many things I wanted to ask, so many things I still needed to know, but something off-kilter happened. I watched him regress right before my eyes. It was almost like he was in another place and time entirely. He was no longer in that greenhouse with me.

When he didn’t say anything, the silence ate me alive. Witnessing him like this was captivating. His walls were down. He was willingly showing me a part of him I didn’t know existed. If he and his sister had taught me anything, it was that they were both equally involved in a past that wasn’t good by any means.

Something told me his mother was no longer with us, making me think that maybe we had that in common, having only one parent. Where my upbringing was loving, his was filled with nothing but hatred, rules, and trauma.

I couldn’t help but wonder how she passed…

Was she killed? Is that the date on the tree? 10-31-12?

That would’ve made him six years old when it happened. It would also explain why he was so intoxicated on Halloween. My mind was unraveling with an endless stream of theories, one right after the other.

Because I couldn’t contemplate it any longer, I asked about the flower he was utterly consumed with. “You grow belladonna in here?”

“Mm-hmm…”

This wasn’t just planted in here. It’d been there for years.

Reading my mind, he confessed, “My mother planted them.” His gaze remained focused on the flowers. Not looking at me for a second, he was too fixated with whatever was reeling through his mind.

I watched him like you’d watch a car wreck, completely intrigued and terrified with where this was going. Of what I’d see, feel, hear… of what I’d need to process and how it would affect me.

Of how it’d affect us.

“When I was a kid, I remember picking one.” He let out a small laugh, almost to himself. I could tell he was reminiscing about what he was about to share.

I coaxed, “You touched it?”

“I was maybe five, six…” He cocked his head to the side, studying it as if the memory was somewhere hidden in the leaves. “I used to come in here with her every day. She was always so happy in here. She called it her haven, away from my father, the Brotherhood, the town… the fucking Graves.”

“Onyx—”

“It was our time together, away from rules and oaths and blood…”

I listened like he was telling me a bedtime story, and I guess in a way he was.