Page 104 of Misery

"Still. The timing?—"

"The timing was shit," Helle interrupts. "But that doesn't make what you said less true. The club does come first. Always has."

Mom flinches but doesn't deny it. "It's the life we chose."

"You chose," I correct. "We were born into it."

"And you could have left," she points out. "Both of you. Could have gone anywhere, been anything. But you stayed."

She's right. I hate that she's right.

We're all complicit in this life, even when we rage against it.

"Tell me what happened," I say. "At the house. Everything."

She pours herself another drink, downs it, pours again. "I was in the bedroom. Your father was in the garage, working on his bike. Normal morning. Then I heard the door. Thought it was him coming in to check on me."

She touches the bandage gently, winces. "But it wasn't. This man—young, maybe thirty. Handsome in that dangerous way. Dark hair, dark eyes. He smiled at me like we were old friends."

"Thiago," I whisper.

"That's what he said his name was. Said he grew up with Oskar and Emil. Said he'd come to check on us, make sure we were safe." She laughs bitterly. "I actually offered him coffee. That's when he hit me. Something heavy—I didn't see what. Went down hard."

"Mom—"

"I could hear your father shouting from the garage. Fighting. But everything was fuzzy, distant. The man—Thiago—he leaned down and said to tell Oskar he says hello. Said he was taking something that didn't belong to him." Her voice cracks. "Then nothing. Woke up to smoke alarms and Oskar cutting my restraints."

"He saved you," Helle points out.

"After his friend nearly killed me." The bitterness in her voice could etch glass.

"Thiago's not his friend," I defend automatically, then wonder why I'm defending Oskar at all. "Not anymore."

"But he was. They grew up together." Mom meets my eyes. "How well do you really know him, Elfe? How well do any of us know the men we let into our lives?"

Before I can answer, the dogs start barking.

All three of them at once, their voices echoing through the house.

Someone's here.

Aren appears in the doorway, hand on his weapon. "It's Oskar. He wants to talk to you."

My heart does something complicated—speeds up with anger, skips with need. "I don't want to see him."

"He says it's important. About your father."

That changes everything.

I stand, realize I'm still covered in paint, but I don't care. "Where?"

"Outside. By the bikes."

I follow Aren through the house, aware of my mother and sister watching.

Aware of how this looks—the woman running to the man who's been lying to her.

But if he has information about my father, I need to hear it.