Page 26 of Cruel Hearts

Not only have you have fallen from both my esteem and estimation, but you have sullied my perception of all womankind. Since you persist in besmirching my good name, I will retaliate in kind.

Enclosed are the Christmas and birthday cards you sent me over the years. I expect you to return mine.

Sincerely,

Mr. Thomas Neapolitan Esq.

I shook my head. Someone needed to push this psychopath into a volcano. He was still stalking her even though she’d moved on with her life.

Most of the other letters contained an outpouring of his feelings toward the betrayal of his only friend. Reading between the lines, Mother had been quite popular at school and spared Father Neapolitan attention out of pity.

16 November 2001

Miss Burgh,

How the mighty have fallen. I read about your conviction in the Glasgow Gazette. You are a whore, a liar, and a slanderer several times over, but I never thought you capable of the theft of a precious heirloom.

Now that the papers have published the name of your London thug, I will pursue William Hancock for assault and battery to the extent of the law.

I hope you receive your just punishment from both God and the English judiciary system. May you and your bastard soon-to-be child languish in hell.

Yours in vindication,

Mr. Thomas Neapolitan Esq.

My fingers trembled, and my pulse beat between my ears like a war drum. This letter was after Mother had been thrown in jail. She would never have read this. My throat tightened. This was beyond sick. Father Neapolitan had sent that message to strike at a distraught Mr. and Mrs. Burgh. That wretched, sanctimonious rapist.

Gulping mouthfuls of air, I stared at the jagged words until they blurred. If Billy Hancock was the boy Mother had met on a Glasgow weekend and she had run away to London months later to meet him, did that mean he was my father?

Nausea trickled up the back of my throat. I didn’t want to be related to either of those bastards. I shook off those thoughts and swallowed hard.

After placing the letters back in the drawer, I took a break to eat and shower before opening the one next to it, which held a photo album. This one contained pictures of a young version of Mother with her girlfriends. Most of them were in Glasgow town center, with weedy looking teenaged boys hanging around in the background.

One of the pictures was of Mother and a dark-haired girl standing next to a young Billy Hancock. He stared lazily at the camera with his arms wrapped around the girls and an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips. My tall, muscular stepfather looked dazzling compared to the dreary schoolboys littering hanging around behind them.

From his designer clothes, mobile phones, and gold chains, he was probably dealing back then.

I shook my head and whispered, “Why?”

The answer was clear. Father Neapolitan had been harassing Mother, and anyone else was a welcome escape. It wouldn’t surprise me if he framed her for stealing something from the academy just to discredit her accusation of rape.

Mother beamed at me from the scrapbook. I didn’t think I had ever seen her looking so happy. If Mother had supposedly slept with the London thug in May, she might have met him in the subsequent Glasgow weekend and conceived me. It looked like my father was Billy Hancock.

My shoulders drooped. If that was true, why didn’t she declare him on my birth certificate?

The doorbell rang, and my heart did a triple backflip. I’d lost the entire afternoon to snooping.

I ran down the stairs and flung the door open, letting in a gust of frosty air. It was dark already, and the outside lights made the knights’ features appear even more chiseled.

My eyes skipped over Kendrick and Orlando and focussed on Maxwell, who stood less proud than the others. In the mere space of twenty-four hours, his bruises darkened to a purplish-blue that appeared nearly black.

Shit.

Knowing that Sammy had done this to him turned my stomach into knots. He was still with my former friend, Nichelle, yet he thought he had the right to pummel anyone who got close to me. Maxwell’s gray eyes met mine, and all the anger and hurt and resentment resurfaced in a rush of boiling blood.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” I placed my hands on my hips.

The bastard lowered his gaze. “I regret what I did.”