Page 135 of The Dearly Departed

"For w-what?" Shawn asked, his eyes pinned on me.

"Why, the grand reveal, of course!"

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Ike asked, seeming to notice me then as his eyes slid from Gerald to land on my stoic form.

He furrowed his bloodied brow and tipped his head as if he already recognized me, and, hell, considering my suit and height … maybe he did.

Gerald snapped his fingers. "Mask off."

I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell him to shove his demands up his fat ass. But talking would've meant to let them hear my voice. They would hate me before they even saw my face, and I needed a minute. I needed a moment to steady my emotions before destroying everything I'd worked for and cared about.

I needed more time.

"Now," he demanded, turning to me with an expression that said he'd kill me if I didn't listen.

Rip it off. Like a Band-Aid. Quick and easy.

Deal with the aftermath later.

And that was exactly what I did.

I bowed my head and reached for the mask and tore it off, unveiling my face as my lungs worked overtime. And when I finally lifted my head to look at them both, I kept my eyes closed for a moment to let the stale basement air settle against my skin.

"What … the … hell?" Shawn uttered in a whisper.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Ike exclaimed, enraged—and rightfully so. "I knew it! Oh my God, I saw you come down those fuckin' stairs and knew it was you. You asshole! Oh God, you piece of fuckin’ shit, Abraham! I’m gonna—"

"Oh, Isaac, will you relax?" Gerald interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Abraham here has been keeping you both fed and clothed, and this is how you repay him?"

Shawn shook his head, keeping his composure better than I’d thought he would. "What is he talking about, Bram?"

I took a step forward, wrenching the mask in my clenched hands. "I—"

"Oh, please, let me tell them," Gerald said, something close to giddy. "Abraham works for me!”

"You work for him?!" Ike seethed, his eyes wild against a backdrop of blood.

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

"What do you do for him?" Shawn asked, and I noticed how … unsurprised he seemed now. But there was betrayal and pain.

Of course there was.

He had known the money was coming from somewhere. He always knew. He just hadn’t known from where, but now … he did.

Shame weighed against my neck as I hung my head. I didn't want to say it. Didn't want to utter the words. It was easier with Analise. She understood what anyone who worked for Gerald did for him. Whether it was killing, selling drugs, stealing, or … something else, it was all illegal. But she understood this life. And it was funny to me now—that I'd been more honest with her than I'd been with my own brothers these last few years, even if she didn't know my real name.

"Abraham does my dirty work," Gerald said with pride, standing beside me and laying a hand against my shoulder.

"What does that mean?" Shawn asked, never looking in my father’s direction. "You steal shit? You—"

I shook my head solemnly.

His brow crumpled. "Is it drugs?"

Again, I shook my head, but said nothing else. Because how else was I supposed to admit that I was keeping Leonard's business afloat with blood money?

Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Then … what?"