Page 6 of Inflict

Mostly, Connor tried to stay out of the way of the men when they visited.

His father told him to.

He tried to listen, when he could.

Sometimes, they pried him from one of his many hiding corners, and as long as his father wasn’t too close by, Connor didn’t mind.

Connor decided to use the unexpected visitors to his benefit, knowing his father was probably stuck in his office with the men, or even in front of the television in the main room. If Sean was distracted, he might not notice Connor sneak to his bedroom upstairs to change his dirty clothes before his father could lay into him for getting messy when he knew better.

He was not looking forward to the whipping he would surely get if he was caught with mud-stained skin and clothes.

Even still, Connor wiped his clothes as he climbed up the front steps out of habit, trying to get rid of whatever mud might have dried. Barely any came off, and his hands were brown, with dirt caked under his fingernails.

Stupid mutt.

Next time, he was going to have his pocketknife ready for that dog.

Connor opened the front door slowly, listening for any sounds that would tell him where his father and the other men were inside the house. Faint murmurs echoed down the hall, telling him they were likely in the main room. He had hoped they would be upstairs in the office, because it would be easier for Connor to get inside his own room when he didn’t have to bypass the office. The main room, though, had a wide entrance that he would have to speed by and hope not to be noticed.

It wouldn’t be as easy.

“Connor?”

Connor damn near slammed the front door shut and bolted back down the front steps at the soft call of his name—it was only because the voice, though hoarse and sore sounding, was soft, did he push the door open the rest of the way. He quickly stepped inside, making sure not to let the door even make a click when it latched shut.

On her hands and knees, scrubbing muddy footprint streaks off the wood floor, was the maid. Connor’s gaze instantly went to the flimsy, flower-patterned scarf tied around her throat. It was an unusual sight, as she only ever wore black- or gray-colored clothes, and never something with more color.

Where had she even gotten that scarf from?

“Oh, you’re all dirty,” she whispered, not moving from her spot with the scrub brush and chemical-smelling bucket on the floor. “You better hurry upstairs and get cleaned, lad.”

Connor’s gaze darted down the hall, thankful his father wasn’t standing there watching. She wasn’t allowed to talk to him, and he wasn’t allowed to speak to her, but sometimes, they managed a word or two when it was safe.

She was nice—sweet. Though never explicitly asked, she made sure Connor had clothes or pajamas on his bed every night and day, a glass of cold water on his nightstand before bed, and juice in the morning, hot meals, and sometimes she’d sneak him food, toys or his picture books when he was being punished.

He knew she wasn’t, but she was the closest thing to a mother he’d ever had. The others that had come before her were never as soft-handed, gentle, or caring. They only worried about doing what they needed to in order to avoid Sean’s anger, and Connor didn’t blame them for that.

He was the same way.

Sometimes, like him, she wore bruises on places where they couldn’t be hidden.

“I will,” Connor said.

Her hand fiddled with the scarf at her neck, but quickly stopped when Connor looked at the item again. He didn’t know if she had seen him in the office doorway, earlier. Not like his father clearly had. Connor wasn’t about to ask.

“Hurry,” she said in that raspy way.

He wondered if her throat hurt—did it hurt to speak?

He decided not to ask that, either.

Connor didn’t wait around in the entryway any longer, once the maid went back to scrubbing the floor. He headed down the hall, more cautious than before. The closer he came to the main room, the louder and clearer the voices of the men and his father became.

“He’s too stuck in what used to be,” Sean said. “He’s not ready to take this organization where it needs to go.”

“Sean—”

“Declan is still thinking small. We need to think big.”