Chapter Eleven
I inspect the dining room table when I walk into the room.
Once I’m fully satisfied that everything looks as it should, I lower the tablecloth again.
No one would ever know that a good little girl had spread her legs for her father and brother the night before.
“Good morning, Daddy,” comes the tedious reply from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder at Skylar, looking her briefly up and down before I walk the length of the table and take my seat at the head of it.
“What’s for breakfast?” I ask her as she approaches me with the morning newspaper.
“Um, scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries, and uh…”
Her voice trails off because she doesn’t know if her decisions are good enough, and honestly, that’s why these women always end up dead.
They second guess themselves too much.
They’re not strong enough to be in this family, so they’re used to reproduce and then taken care of accordingly.
“And?” I inquire in a stern tone.
“I was squeezing some orange juice,” she answers nervously. I watch as she starts to wring her hands and wonder if that’s a trait they all have.
“Then get everything served,” I instruct her as I open the paper, dismissing her at the same time.
I’m not in the mood today to play the part of the dutiful caretaker. Not with memories of Taylee becoming more and more frequent.
And I honestly wish I knew why.
Neither of these children seem to be as fucked in the head as she was. They don’t seem to be as carefree either.
Granted, I may not have found their buttons to push to see if any part of her bled into them after all, but it’s because I don’t care.
I shouldn’t even have to be raising them.
I wonder if I should find someone to do this shit for me.
But I don’t want to deal with another outsider, and Darby went in the oubliette, so it’s a moot thought. There’s no one else. I know all of the Greene women.
It’s a moot thought since I know all of the Greene women in this family from Taylee down and, with the exception of her, they’ve all come from me.
I could always push Richter to make Skylar a mother sooner than planned and maybe then…
My ponderings are interrupted by the girl reentering the room and setting a heavy, glass pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice down in the center of the table.
I look up briefly before I return to the newspaper. I’m not particularly worried about what goes on outside of the walls of my home, but it’s the best escape I can give myself on the days I don’t get into town to restock.
Speaking of which.
“Richter!”
The sound of his frantic footsteps as he makes his way quickly toward the dining room makes me chuckle.
“Good morning, Dad,” he greets me as he struggles to catch his breath.
“We’ll find that out shortly,” I say as I reach for the pitcher and fill the glass next to my empty plate.