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Those secrets seem heavier than they have ever been.
And most of all, I’ve held all of these secrets to keep my family safe. To keep my siblings safe. To make them happy.
But I haven’t been happy. I haven’t been safe.
And I am profoundly and completely fucking alone.
Fuck it, indeed.
“You know what, Elio? Fuck it,” I say. “I could use a fucking friend too.”
He chuckles. “I take it your endeavors are going well?”
“Fuck no,” I bite out.
In the garden, in Liam MacAntyre’s family home, within earshot of the woman that’s currently tangling my life into knots, I start to talk. I tell Elio about some things. Not everything, of course, because even if we’re friends, I don’t fucking trust him.
I don’t trust anyone.
It feels shitty, to tell him partial truths, but as he hesitates on some things as well, I can tell that he’s doing the same thing. Elio’s tells might be more obvious than mine, but neither one of us is in a place to give the whole truth.
Yet.
But fuck it feels good to just get some of it out there.
Finally, the words slow, and I heave a sigh.
“My friend,” Elio says, the laughter clear in his voice. “I think you have a fucking problem.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
Roisin is a problem.
And for the first time, I have no fucking solution.
10
ROISIN
The morning bringsa hangover and the oppressing reminder of the fact that I’m thirty days away from being locked behind bars, a wanted criminal in my own organization. It’s early; the clock on my phone points out that normally, I’d still be asleep at this time. Too fucking early, definitely. The rest of the house probably isn’t awake yet, but the champagne still fizzing in my veins clearly had an impact. I get up, brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair, then settle back into the comfortable bed. The light on the walls is the dove-gray particular to the very beginnings of dawn, and I let myself soak it in while trying to sort through the racing thoughts in my head.
The despair hits me like a sucker punch.
No chance of seeing my mom again.
No chance of finding her.
No chance of falling in love or having a family or just fucking going to Ibiza for the weekend, or doing any of the otherthings that I’ve toyed with doing with my life after I found my mom.
Jail. Forever.
For a crime I didn’t do.
Stassi put me in one of the guest bedrooms, which I’m kind of grateful for. I did have a room here, once, but I have no attachment to it. The guest room is perfect, a soft blend of fabrics with cream tones that work well with the ancient stone walls. It’s not even freezing in here, which I attribute to the prolific use of space heaters, and what I suspect might be a sub-floor heater under the luxurious rugs at my feet.
The bed linens are soft. They feel relatively new, and I know that they weren’t here when I last left the manor house. Granted, that was a good deal of years ago, but still.
They look nice. Soft. Neutral. Nothing to let anyone know about the fucking vicious past that these walls have witnessed.