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Xan raises a brow. “Party tonight?”
“Fuck yes.” Then Ronan goes on about the ladies who will be available to him and how he’ll forget our betrayal with them.
I tune him out, even though I still get the gist of his words.
All I can focus on is the look in Silver’s bright blue eyes. The way they lighten under the hint of the sun. The way they sparkle with excitement whenever her father wins a poll, or Derek hands her the bag of mini Snickers bars she still uses as comfort food.
Or when I step into her room every night.
Look at me, I speak to her in my head. Not him. Fucking look at me.
I stand there for a few seconds, counting, waiting for the moment she realises she’s not supposed to be talking to Aiden.
That I’ll find her in Ronan’s party, drag her to that room where I first tied her, and do it again.
I know that’s exactly why she’s putting on this show. She loves the thrill, the slight fear, and even the forbidden aspect of it. She gets wet when I ask her if she’s scared someone will walk in.
But the fact she’s not looking at me, not even a glance, is fucking with my head.
It doesn’t help that this is the most wrong day of all.
She, of all people, should know that.
I leave Ronan and Xander in the middle of their usual bickering, take a quick shower, and head to my Jeep.
Instead of going to Sebastian’s house, I drive back home.
My original home that Mum still keeps.
I go straight to where my mind has been living for the past ten years. I drop my messenger bag on
the chaise lounge and stand at the edge of the pool, placing both hands in my trousers’ pockets.
The water is blue; I know that. But all I see is red. Deep, dark red and blank eyes and a hand.
Ever since that night, I haven’t been able to swim in this pool. I swim in other pools, and I never imagine their colours changing.
This one is different.
Even now, the water is turning a murky red. A hand will come out from there. He’ll gurgle words.
I still don’t remember the last words he said. Which is ironic for someone with an excellent memory.
Were they even words?
I do remember the first part, though. I’ll never forget it. Maybe that’s why I can’t recall the rest.
You’re a monster.
My monster of a father called me a monster. How ironic is that?
Not ironic enough apparently, because I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s like an old, distorted disc that plays in my head on repeat.
I can’t forget the blood or the hand or the gurgled words he said before he stopped speaking altogether.
Today is the anniversary of William Nash’s death. Ten years later, I’m still standing at the edge of the pool as if I’m that small kid.
I still wonder why I extended a hand to get him out.
