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“Does she not remember that I technically don’t live here?”
I regret the words before the sentence is even finished falling from my lips; of fuckingcourseshe doesn’t remember. That’s part of the entire disease.
God, I’m an asshole.
Fiona senses my shame, offering a soft frown, but doesn’t let me off the hook. “She barely remembers to eat, Kieran. You expect her to keep up with your living arrangements?” She pops another bubble, turning to study me with her doe eyes. “Besides, youkindalive here. I mean, you never sleep at your cottage. Too much fuel for nightmares there?”
I cast a sharp glance at her, clenching my jaw.There’s no way she could know, right?My father and Boyd are the only people who know what I do, what I’ve done, that she would have interacted with. And other than rumors that fill the tiny streets of our small town, no claims hold any merit.
Swallowing down the fear racing inside me, I aim for nonchalance. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know, it’s easier to forget your demons when you’re not all by your lonesome.”
Nodding, I accept her answer, relief washing through me at her ignorance. “Yeah, I guess.” Knocking her knee with mine, I redirect the conversation. “How come you’re still up? Don’t you have an early class?”
Her face pinches together. “Don’t remind me. Seriously, who let me enroll inpsychology? I’ve got about a thousand assigned readings. I thought freshman year was supposed to be primarily partying and gaining weight.”
“You’ll be glad for the education in a few years. Trust me.”
She nods, wiping her mouth. “Do you ever regret not going?”
Yes.“No. I stopped having regrets a long time ago, Fi. All they do is weigh down your progress.” With that, I get to my feet, push the towel off her head, and make my way inside.
The foyer is empty, along with the kitchen and living room, so I pad farther into the belly of the mansion. When I make it to the back, I find my mother crouched on the floor in the greenhouse, an extension built right off the screened-in back porch. She’s scooping pieces of orange ceramic and dirt into a dustpan, even as a rigid tremor works through her body.
Her hair falls around her face, loosened out of the perennial bun she keeps it in, and I watch silently as she sets the brush down, clasping her left hand with her right as if trying to force the shake from her body.
But, like an earthquake splitting tectonic plates, it can’t be reversed or soothed. Just ridden out.
I slide open the glass door, the humidity from the multitude of tropical plants smacking me in the face, and clear my throat. “Need some help?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she sits back on her knees and tries to smile. “There’s my boy. Where’ve you been?”
Shaking my head, I ease the door shut and go inside, taking over the cleanup. I sweep the remaining dirt and ceramic into the pan and dump it into the little plastic bag at her side. “Just conducting some business for Dad in Stonemore.”
“Stonemore?” Her green eyes narrow, a knowing look passing over her face. “What’s he got you doing there?”
“Just some stuff that Murphy left unfinished.” Namely, a body count he didn’t live up to. So, here I am, on the hook for his mistakes like I am for his murder.
Because having his ghost paint the walls in his blood and fill my ears with his agony wasn’t quite enough. No, Murphy Ivers was an overachiever in every sense of the word, except when it came to owning up to his mistakes.
Fuck, I need to visit his grave.
I haven’t gone since seeing Juliet at the gala, as if I can find atonement in her proximity. As if her innocence, her naivete, can provide me some relief from the guilt threatening to swallow me whole, from the nightmare living in my bones.
“Well, I wish your father wouldn’t involve you in that stuff. Like he doesn’t know your soul is fragile.” She reaches up and grips my shoulder, pushing herself into a standing position, and pats my cheek with one cold hand.
It’s not fragile, Mom. Just missing. Absent.
Sold.
“It’s not a big deal, Mom. Really. You don’t need to worry about me.”
She scoffs, swatting at me. “That’s like telling a goldfish it doesn’t need water to survive. As long as I’m around, I’m gonna worry about my kids. That’s the mark of a good mother.”
Swallowing through the swelling of my throat, I stand to my full height and offer her my arm. Her white terrycloth robe brushes against the floor; every day, it sweeps lower as straightening her spine becomes more difficult.
Assisting her out of the greenhouse and up the back staircase, I drop her off in the master suite she shares with my father—he sits slumped over in bed, a newspaper crumpled on his chest, black reading glasses perched haphazardly on his nose. I turn to her as she walks inside, cocking an eyebrow.
