“Ashamed?”
“It was Tristan,” Pa explains. “He… I remember bits and pieces.”
“He’s the one who put you in the coffin?” I gasp, even though I’m not really surprised.
“I was in a fookin’ coffin?”
I bite my lip, not sure how or if to answer.
He studies my face and then looks down at the way I’m clutching his hand. “Where are we, sweet?”
“The O’Sullivan Manor.”
“This is where you ran off to?” he asks, but there’s no accusation in his tone.
“No, Pa. I… I planned on leaving the country,” I admit, biting the bullet and owning the decision I made back when I had hope. “I was at the airport when Tristan caught me. He dragged me to the station and put me in a holding cell.”
“Under what grounds?” Pa surprises me by asking.
“On the grounds that I pissed him off,” I laugh scornfully. “You know what he’s like.”
Pa’s eyes cloud over and he returns pressure on my hand. “I do know what he’s like. I knew… even back then.” He looks down as though he can’t bear to look me in the eye. “And I let you marry him. I encouraged it.”
I stare silently at my father. Mostly because I never expected to hear him admit to that out loud.
“I knew he was a monster,” Pa continues. “But somehow, I thought it was a good thing. I thought he could keep you safe, provide for you.”
“And help you out when you needed it?” I accuse before I can stop myself.
His face twists again.
I feel instantly horrible. “I’m sorry, Pa.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s true. I was thinking of myself when I should have been thinking of you.”
“It’s okay. Forget about it. We can talk about something else.”
“No, it’s not,” he says firmly. “Tristan had me dragged out from the home a few days ago.”
“He did what?” I gape at him.
Pa nods. “He moved me back to your house. He had me tied up. Tortured.”
He hiccups on the last word and I lean in a little closer. “Oh, Pa, for fuck’s sake… I’m so sorry…”
He shakes his head and gives me a sad smile. “I make all the mistakes and yet you’re always the one who ends up apologizing. I should be the one apologizing, Saoirse. I should be on my knees begging for your forgiveness.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I could barely stand a few days with him,” Pa interrupts. “How you managed thirteen years, I’ll never know. I’m ashamed of what I expected you to put up with. To suffer through.”
I look down as bitterness and pain war with one another.
I love my father. But I recognize the part of myself that’s also angry with him.
It’s not like the bruises and scars on my arms went unnoticed. He saw it all.
He just pretended not to.