Page 115 of Inflict

Evelyn. Evelyn. Evelyn.

That it was her screams. Her pain.

The back door looked rotted around the sides, like one good kick was all it would take to tear the feckin’ thing down. Connor knew he should have waited for that sign from Killian, as the man had promised, but the feminine screams made him crazy.

He wasn’t thinking rationally—he wasn’t thinking at all—when his booted foot slammed into the door just under the knob, and sent it crashing open with a bang loud enough to wake the devil. It wasn’t a hallway he entered, but a room of sorts. A family room, given the old, rotting furniture and crooked photos on the walls. The place was just as horrible looking on the inside as it was on the outside.

Connor didn’t have much time to think about it.

Damn near to the second he had entered, a figure appeared out of a hallway near the other side of the room. A figure he recognized, even in the darkness.

Sean.

Connor had his gun raised and ready to shoot, but found himself slamming against the closest wall to avoid the sudden bullets flying at him. He heard Sean curse under his breath, and then the heavy footsteps moving further away.

He looked to the side, finding his father was gone again.

The screaming coming from the room toward the front of the house stopped when the sounds of gunshots cut through the air.

One pop.

That was all it took.

Just the one.

Connor’s gun fell from his hand, clattering to the rotted floor and forgotten. He no longer cared—he wouldn’t need it, not if his father had done what he believed he did. He pushed off the wall and headed in the direction he had seen his father, his body numb again, and his mind suddenly hazy with pain.

Evelyn.

Evelyn.

Evelyn.

Her name became a mantra in Connor’s mind, repeating over and over again, taunting him almost. You’re too late. You were always too late.

Connor stepped into the back hallway of the house at the same time his father appeared from a doorway, his gun raised and pointed directly at his son. Sean’s face was devoid of everything—emotion, concern, and fear.

Like always, the man was dead inside.

Connor was sure, in that moment, he was looking into a mirror.

“You couldn’t let me have this one feckin’ thing, could you, lad?” his father asked.

Even his voice was flat and cold.

“She wasn’t yours to have,” Connor replied in the same tenor.

“She certainly wasn’t anyone else’s. I’ve waited a long time for this, Connor. And you’re not going to feck it up for me, now.”

Connor didn’t move as his father came closer. He didn’t even look away from the gun that was pointed right at his head, ready to blow any second. He almost wanted to ask his father just to get it over with—to hurry the feck up.

This was misery.

Already, he was dying.

Why make him wait?

“I should have killed you the day that whore pushed you out onto the bathroom floor,” Sean said quietly, the barrel of his gun pressing to Connor’s forehead. “It would have saved me a lot of trouble over the years.”