After blinking rapidly a few times, I manage to get to my feet and startle when I realize that the sun is going down.
I pull the curtain aside and give the oubliette one more glance, before I let the fabric swing lazily as I walk out of the room.
Richter should be home by now, and if his hunch was right, he should have our sister with him.
He’s much too stubborn to have left her where he found her. Consequences be damned. Just like Dad, I think with a tired chuckle as I walk down the hallway then descend the stairs.
After Dad died, Richter opened the room across the hall from his. It’s the same space we share on the nights when he thinks he’s more to me than he really is, but I think it’s predominantly because he feels closer to Dad this way.
With all of the things we witnessed, and all of the bullshit we suffered, he still wants to be close to him.
I sigh heavily as I reach the bottom step and make my way into the living room, expecting to find my family.
Instead, I find it void of another living thing and raise an eyebrow curiously.
Maybe they’re in the kitchen.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to feed her when they got home, and not knowing how Cleo is these days, they’re probably still sitting in there having as best a conversation as they can.
I glance into the dining room on the way to the kitchen and shrug when I see that it’s empty too. I’ve always been pretty good at guessing games so I’m sure I’m right with where they are.
But…
I’m wrong.
When I walk into the kitchen, it’s empty.
The lights are still off, and it seems colder for some reason. Lonelier. Less welcoming. Unloving.
All of the things I associate with Dad.
I wrap my arms around myself and purse my lips.
There’s nowhere else in this place that Richter would be. I know this because Dad’s bedroom door was closed when I walked out of our room, which means he isn’t home.
Has he abandoned me?
Maybe he got tired of all my bitching.
Maybe he found Cleo and decided that they’d be better off without me.
Maybe I should count my blessings… but in a place where hope never lived, those are few and far in between.
So, I do the only thing I can do.
I sit on the kitchen floor with the light still off, rest my head against my knees, and begin to cry.
Greene women never were worth much if another one was around, and maybe Richter is his father’s son after all.
I’m sorry, Cleo.
Nine
Bryden
“Let me show you around,” I tell Richter, patting Xoe on the ass to make her stand.
He’s watching me carefully, and there’s so much of Luke in his gaze when I get up as well. Scrutinizing, planning, but he’s still just a kid. Richter needs guidance, and I’m more than happy to show him the ropes.
I offer him my hand, but he rebuffs it and stands on his own. Smiling, I gesture ahead of me into the living room and he walks in with Xoe. The little ones are still on the floor, playing with Heather, and she looks up at me with a smile. “Hi Daddy.”
“Heather, this is Richter. He’s my brother.”
Her eyes go wide as she looks at him, pulling Embry onto her lap and away from the pencil and paper in front of them. She’s been teaching Embry her letters, and for a moment I remember Stephanie doing the same for me.
“Nice to meet you, Heather,” Richter says, almost too quietly, and I want to take his shoulder in my hand and remind him to speak up—but that would be too forward. I need to give him time to warm up.
“So… you’re my… uncle?” she asks, her mouth twisting around the word.
“You can just call him Richter, sweetheart,” I reply, and she shrugs, accepting it because I’ve said it. I point at the beautiful three-year-old in her arms. “And this little one is Embry.”
“She’s mine,” Heather says, and then looks up at me with a flicker of panic. “I mean, I’m her mama, but we love everyone equally. We all take turns taking care of the little ones.”
“That’s right,” I say, offering Heather a smile so she knows I’m not upset. Possessiveness is something I don’t tolerate in my house, and she knows it, but I know she was just trying to be helpful.
Richter nods, staying silent as his eyes drift to the two younger kids playing in a crib against one wall.
“That’s Lissa and Abigail, and… where’s Weston?” I ask, glancing around the living room.
“I’ve got him, Daddy!” Moira calls out as she comes from the hallway, holding the rambunctious boy on her hip. “He just needed a change, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
She’s tickling him and he’s giggling with that perfect joy that toddlers have about everything in life. Leaning over, I press a kiss to Weston’s head, ruffling his dark hair, and he scrunches up his face at me as he twists away. “No!”
I laugh, and Moira sighs at him, patting his hair back down as he tucks himself against her shoulder. “He’s been in a mood today,” she explains, and I shrug.
“That’s just fine. He’s a good boy.” I wait for him to peek back out at me again, and I can’t help but see my first son in his features. It’s why I named him Weston, because Wesley was on my mind that day.
I swear, as I get older, I get more and more sentimental. There’s none of the old anger left for my first children and their betrayals. Some days, I wish they were still here. But… they tried to turn our children against me, almost ruined the family I had worked so hard to build. Luckily, Xoe never believed the hateful words they
