My father grinned as if he’d just been shown a treasure map, turning to face Wyatt and taking the cards from him to shuffle.
I had to count on him? Ha! He was joke.
He could die for all I cared.
Take it back. I tried to look away from them.
Take it back.
Urgh! Why was I the only one tortured! Why didn’t they understand me?
Mom…I hate this. I hate them all.
ETHAN – AGE EIGHTEEN
“You’re the Ceann Na Conairte,” he stated, leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in his blacks. The funeral had ended hours ago, but he was still walking around like the dead. “You must be happy, you’ve finally earned the keys to the kingdom.”
“Let’s not do this today, Wyatt—”
“Do I have to call you Boss now, or would you prefer the less formal SIR?” He snickered as he moved into my room. I watched as he stammered. The closer he got, the more I could smell the alcohol coming off of him.
“I’d prefer if you weren’t drunk and in my face.” I glared down at him.
He ran his hands through my hair. “Who do you think is going to die first? You or me?”
“The way you’re headed—”
“I hope to God it’s me.” He smiled cruelly and pointed his finger into my chest. “You have to live…outlive me, brother. Because if you don’t, we all know I’m going to be the one to bring this thing down. So let me go first.”
“Wyatt—”
“DON’T YOU DARE SAVE ME!” he hollered at my face. “Because I refuse to go to another funeral for the people I love. I won’t. You can’t make me.” He pulled off his tie and threw it at my feet. “I’m done. I’m free. I’m not joining this death march. I’m going go to medical school. I’m going to live a normal life and forget you’re my brother. You die here like everyone else, and I’ll stay out of your way. Deal?”
The moment he held out his hand, I wanted to punch his face in, but instead, trembling with rage, I forced myself to walk away. I walked around him, ripping the door open, and walked right out. I made it only a few paces before I heard his cries. Balling my fist, I bit my lip. I turned back, only making it to my door before I saw Helen, her arms around him as he sobbed. Her eyes met mine, and I shook my head, closing the door on them.
He was pitiful.
He was fucking selfish.
And he knew how to gut people with words.
He could at least cry.
Me. What could I do? Who could I cry to?
Fuck tears.
He could cry.
I’ll work.
He could run.
I’ll carry this on my own.
Just like I knew I would.
TWENTY
“There’s a unique pain that comes from preparing a place in your heart for a child that never comes.”
~ David Platt
EVELYN
You’d think I’d be used to this.
How many times had I gone through this?
I’d lost people so often that it had become part of my muscle memory. I knew all the stages I would go through. How long it would take before I found the will to smile again. I knew the aching would last forever, like a dull knife taking an eternity to tear off a piece of my heart. Even in my mind I couldn’t help but organize—call the casket maker, the grounds keeper, the family florist, and the family church…have all the clothes sent to everyone’s rooms. There needed to be a statement, and then when it was over, I’d come home to silence that was deafening. I’d try to smile while everyone checked on me because I was one heartbreak away from closing my eyes and never getting up again.
This life was horrid.
I was living my punishment.
Every once in a while, I’d forget this was hell, and I’d get comfortable. The moment I did, however, hell would remind me that I didn’t deserve to smile. I didn’t deserve joy. I was being punished. Why had we chosen this life?
When I was young, I was told because we would have starved and died had no one taken care of our families. But now that I was old, I knew that was no longer the reason. We couldn’t stop. We couldn’t walk away from it. The drugs and the power…we couldn’t let it go, because we knew if we did, it would be certain death. We’d caused so much pain, had hurt so many people, had destroyed so many families…but if we stopped, we’d die because they would come for us. How could they not? When we were strong, they came for us. If we were weak, they’d come even more.
So we had to commit.
We had to walk this hell, and we forced our children, and their children, to walk it, too, because no matter how evil we were… the one thing we wanted more than anything else was for our children to live.
So we fed them the poison, forced them to get used to it, corrupted them, stole their innocence…because we loved them. We loved so much that, even if it meant hurting them, we’d do it because it meant they could live.
But when they stopped living.
When they died.
All we could see were our mistakes.
See where we failed and weep in horror for what we had done to them.
“Wyatt…” Grabbing onto my chest, I tried to breathe, but couldn’t...my baby…my grandbaby…I’m so sorry.
EVELYN – AGE FIFTY-EIGHT
“Nana? Nana?”
“Hmm.” Opening my eyes, I saw two brown eyes with green specks staring right back at me. He grinned from ear to ear, getting on my bed and laying down next to me.
“What were you dreaming about? You looked happy.”
Placing my hands on his small little face, I smiled. “I was dreaming of your grandpapa.”
“My dad’s dad?” he asked, so curious.
I laughed, nodding. “Yes, your dad’s dad. You’re named after him you know. His name was Sedric. That was actually going to be your first name,
