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I shiver as I replay the stabbing jolt of pure fear when he grabbed me, and the terrible, sick-making sensation of the egg slipping from my fingers.
To my son. All of my love.
Dread pools in my stomach as I shuffle out of building that houses the market strategies class I just completely zoned out through. This isnotgood. Like, it could start an all-out war not good.
Except, he didn’t catch me last night. He wasn’t waiting for me at my house, or at school this morning, because—
He didn’t see you.
You had your hood up.
The cameras were disabled.
He does. Not. Know.
I keep saying it as I head off to go meet Callie and Dahlia for lunch. It still doesn’t do a thing to calm the jangling, twitchy feeling of impending doom screaming inside my head.
* * *
I’ma block away from the restaurant Calliopeon the Upper West Side, Callie’s all-time favorite Greek spot in New York that she swears isn’t due to the fact that it’s literally her name, when my phone rings. I glance down, my brows drawing together when I see my uncle’s name on the screen.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
Though they were technically married—for the second time—six months ago, Cillian and Una are just now finally taking the time to escape for a real honeymoon. Currently, they’re about a week into a month-long stay at a castle somewhere in Ireland.
Of course those two wouldn’t go to a beach resort like normal people. OfcourseMr. and Mrs. Donnie Darko are spending their honeymoon in a 13th-century tower somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, in County freaking Kildare of all places.
Cillian chuckles. “I just wanted to check in. Everything good?”
I swallow thickly. “Mm-hmm. Great.”
“Great.” He clears his throat. “Actually, I’m not just calling to chat. We need to talk.”
My heart drops. I can feel my face go white. A naked chill rips down my spine as I come to a dead stop on the sidewalk.
“Oh?” I choke.
Oh God, he knows. He knows I’ve basically thrown our family into war with the freaking Reznikovs by breaking into—
“Do you and Brooks McKinnley still talk at all?”
The panic from a second ago evaporates. Or rather, isdrownedin the tidal wave of disgust and churning anger simply hearing that fucking name brings out in me.
“What?” I blurt, my vision dotting. “No,” I mutter coldly. “Not at all.”
Not since that night, four years ago.
“You dated for a while in high school.”
It’s not a question. He knows this.
Cillian didn’t raise us. He didn’t even live on the same continent as us. Nor is he remotely the warm and fuzzy type of uncle who keep up with things like boyfriends and goings-on in our lives because he wants to chat about it. No, he keeps up with those sort of things because he’s a methodical, calculating machine more than he is a man. The most human I’ve ever known him to be is since he’s been with Una.
Even so, he was more of a father to Neve and me than Declan—may he burn in hell—ever was.
When I don’t respond, he continues.
“You know his father, obviously?”
