I try not to relive the last half hour before Pa was shot.
I will myself not to see the O’Sullivan boy’s pale blue eyes as he called my name. There was a message in his tone when he said it.
Was there an apology hidden somewhere?
Was there remorse? Sympathy?
Or am I just a stupid girl imagining feelings when there’s nothing there?
He left me in the dirt with my father in my arms. That much is certain.
But he didn’t want to go.
I don’t know how or why I know that. I just do.
Cillian O’Sullivan.
I’ve never heard of him before. But his last name is familiar. It’s spoken in hushed whispers throughout the city.
Cillian O’Sullivan.
It’s seared on my mind like scar tissue.
The front door slams open. I yelp with shock as Tristan steps into the living room.
He’s tall and broad with a strong but doughy build. Dark hair, almost black, sort of messily curling around his big head. His eyes are watery gray, but his lips are constantly on the move in a way that reminds me of a wild animal hunting for its next meal.
He doesn’t even glance at Pa. He looks only at me as he moves closer. His tongue runs over his thin lips as he squats to the floor and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You did the right thing calling me,” he croons in a voice that’s far too calm for the circumstances.
I glance towards Pa, mostly because I can’t stand looking at Tristan.
“He wouldn’t let me call the cops or the paramedics.”
“They’ll ask questions,” Tristan explains condescendingly. “Questions your pa won’t be able to answer. The people I call won’t ask questions.”
“Call them.”
He flinches at my tone. “I already have. They’ll be here to collect him shortly.”
“How bad is it?” I can’t help but ask.
For the first time, Tristan looks down at Pa. I look with him.
I can’t help but notice how drained he looks. How old. He barely looks like himself without all the ruddy redness in his cheeks.
“He’ll live,” Tristan says dismissively.
He gets to his feet and scans the room. I try and ignore him, but he has the kind of gaze that burns.
He’s been around for years. Practically my whole life. Lingering on the periphery for as long as I can remember.
And how do I feel about that?
For a long time, indifferent.
Until a few years ago. Around the time I’d turned fourteen and he’d started looking at me with something else in his gaze.