Page 83 of Luck of the Devil

It was hard to believe he would have caused her harm, even unintentionally. But, hadn’t he hurt me? Not physically. But after Andi’s murder, he had withdrawn. Left me alone in a house full of grief and silence. Ignored me like I was too painful to look at.

It wasn’t the same thing. Not even close. Or was it? Doubt slipped into me like a draft under a locked door.

“She really thought he might have made her disappear?” My voice cracked on the last word.

Aunt Hannah winced. “I needed her to tell me I was wrong. That I was being paranoid. But she didn’t.”

“You wanted reassurance,” I said, needing reassurance of my own.

“And she didn’t give it,” Hannah said, “So I asked what she thought had happened to Andi. Had she overheard something about your dad’s business dealings? There was a long pause. Then she said it again. ‘I don’t know.’”

My mother hadn’t said no.

She hadn’t said no.

My entire life began to unravel like a loose thread tugged too far. We’d each played our roles to perfection: my mother, the brittle socialite of a small town; my father, the gentle Atticus Finch type. Andi, the golden child. And me? I was the pancake child. The one you practice on. You flip too soon and she’s uncooked in the middle, flip too late and she’s burned around the edges.

I’d always believed my father’s kindness was the steadiness that ran beneath our dysfunction.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

“She sounded so broken,” Aunt Hannah whispered. Tears streamed down her face and she swiped at them, as though embarrassed. “I asked if she’d told the police. She said Paul had them in his pocket—that they’d never believe her. I told her to go higher, to the FBI. To someone who could actually do something. But she said she had it handled.” My aunt drew in a shaky breath. “I pushed her. Asked how she had it handled, but I could tell she was close to the edge. So I backed off and offered to come down and be with her. But she said Paul wouldn’t want me there, and it would only make things worse.” Her voice cracked. “So, I stayed away, and then… after they found Andi…” She stopped again, wiping furiously at her reddened cheeks. “She called me, sounding like that conversation had never happened. Back to her usual stiff upper lip. She said I had a lot of nerve to doubt her husband. And as far as she was concerned, her family was dead to her.”

I felt like I was watching a horror movie.

“She cut Mom and Dad off after that,” Aunt Hannah added softly.

“Why do you think she cut your parents off?” Malcolm asked, voice pitched low.

Hannah turned to face him. “Because I told her I was going to tell them everything.”

“But you didn’t,” my grandfather growled.

She turned to face him with guilt-filled eyes. “No, because I hoped she’d change her mind. And if I told you, you would have never forgiven Paul.”

“As we shouldn’t!” he exploded, slamming a palm on the table. The silverware rattled, and I instinctively jumped.

Malcolm tensed next to me but didn’t let go of my hand.

“I know,” she whispered, dropping her gaze to the table. “I know.”

Silence fell over the room, heavy and aching. The kind that follows a natural disaster, when the dust hasn’t settled yet and you’re checking for damage.

The silence roared in my ears.

I stared at my half-full plate on the table, but my vision was fuzzy, like I was about to pass out or I was waking up from a bad dream.

My mother had cut off her parents.

She’d defended my father.

She’d chosen him. Even when she’d thought he was capable of being a monster.

But she’d been cold to me my entire life, even before Andi’s death. Every sharp word, every time she’d looked through me like I wasn’t there—it all made some kind of sick sense now. She hadn’t been just distant. She’d been protecting my father’s dirty secrets. She’d picked him over her daughters. Over her family. Over me. Even knowing what he might be capable of, she’d chosen to share a bed with him, share a life. She’d let him tuck us in at night and pretend we were a normal family, all while suspecting he was capable of murder.

I felt a wail rising inside me, begging for release, but I clamped it down. I was not going to lose it now. Not when I finally had some answers. Still, I couldn’t get past her choice.

“She said you were dead to her,” I stated, not feeling the words. “But she cut me off that day too, and she let me believe…” I stopped. I wasn’t going to confess what she’d done to me, and how it had filled me with a deep well of guilt and pain that nothing had been able to quench.