Page 26 of Brainwashed

A voice in my mind begins shouting. It’s one I push down all the time, one I give very little satisfaction to. But when I’m around them, it seems to tunnel its way up to the surface of my brain.

Say it to her, Lem. Say the words…

I swallow thickly as a memory flickers…

“You don’t know what you saw, Lemuel. It wasn’t anything bad, alright? Just don’t tell your father, okay, sweetie?”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

“I just don’t see how you’ll find a better partner than Gabrielle.” My father keeps going, and my fingers dig into my thigh. “Beautiful, smart, successful. Her firm does incredible pro bono work, as I’m sure you know. I was reading an article about it the other day. They called her one of the top prosecutors on the East Coast.”

“Yes, father, I’m well aware of all of that,” I grumble, growing so damn sick and tired of this conversation. “If it were up to me, we would have stayed together. But she wasn’t having it, and honestly, I don’t blame her.” My eyes meet my mother’s. “Who wants to marry someone you’re not in love with, right?”

She’s giving me a pretty scathing glare right now, but I’m not fazed. She’s the last person I would ever take relationship advice from. And my father is a close second.

We finish the rest of the meal in awkward silence. Afterward, I help my mother clear the table, because even though I’m sure I hate her, I still have my manners. We bring out coffee and cake and sit around the table talking about bullshit.

Well, I’m not talking. They are.

I’m zoning out thinking about the message from Manuel Blanco.

I don’t relate to these people. I never have, not since I learned the truth about my parents’ marriage at a young age. And especially not after what happened with Stephen…

“So, Lem, any new interesting cases over there at your practice?” my grandfather asks. My eyes jump to his and my brows lift.

I can’t be sure if he’s goading me so that he can tell me again how I’m like a glorified guidance counselor. He usually isn’t that bad, but he likes to set them up and let my father knock them down.

Or maybe he is just trying to be nice, whether he agrees with my career or not.Either way, I’m not taking the bait.

“Gramp, you know I can’t talk about my patients.” I scoop my fork into the thick icing on my cake. “Confidentiality.”

“I will never understand how you listen to people talk about their problems all day,” my father goes in. Once again, no one is surprised. “Especially those lunatics you treat from the asylum…”

“Jesus, Dad, no one says asylum anymore.” I huff, shaking my head. “It’s not nineteen-fifty.”

“I’m just saying.” He sips his coffee. “I don’t get it… This fascination with crazy.”

My head cocks at him. “Oh, trust me, I know you haveno interestin understanding what makes people tick. Or figuring out why they do the things they do…”

My father’s face drops. So does my grandfather’s. In the flip of a switch, they’re all wearing this expression of suppressed guilt, like their masks have slipped down just a bit and the ugliness they try so desperately to hide from the outside world is showing true.

I lean in on the table. “Out of sight, out of mind. Right, Dad?”

“Lemuel,” my mother gasps quietly, as if someone might overhear us. “That’s enough.”

Shaking my head, I scoot my chair back forcefully. “Thank you for the lovely meal. But I think I’ll be going.”

None of them says a word. In fact, they’re actively trying to look everywhere in the world other than at me while I stomp out of the room toward the door. I’m fuming inside, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of losing it. I haven’t done that since I was a teenager, and it never helped my cause one bit. At this point, doing everything in my power tonotbe like them is the only weapon in my arsenal.

Just as I’m reaching the front door, I spot a pile of mail on a side table. One of the envelope’s return addresses stands out and I pause to glance at it.

S. Love… Chicago, Illinois.

My teeth damn near grind to dust, pulse pounding in my skull while my hands fist at my sides. Closing my eyes, I take a breath and count to ten, pushing it all away. Then I pull open the door and leave the bullshit behind.

I get into the car and turn on my playlist at full volume, blasting music all the way back into the city.

And when I get there, I place a call to Manuel Blanco.