Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“How’s everyone doing?” I ask Dermot.
He glances at me. Any normal brother would get up and hug his sister in a time like this. Instead, he just shrugs and drinks. “How the fuck do you think?”
I last ten minutes with them before I get the hell out of there. That’s the story of my life. I’m always running away from my brothers.
Mom’s up in her room. I find her sitting on her bed, her eyes red with tears. She’s looking at her phone, scrolling through old pictures of the boys. There aren’t many of me.
I finally get the hug I’ve been waiting for. Mom squeezes me tightly. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry? For what?”
“Shane’s dead, honey. He was your brother.”
“I know, but I’m sorry for you. He was your son.”
“We can all mourn, right?” She wipes her face. “I just keep thinking he’ll come storming through that door with a big smile for me, the way he always did.”
I hug her again. She lets out a little sob but gets herself together quickly. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.” The guilt creeps back. I don’t care if I hurt Dad or my brothers. But a part of me wishes Mom didn’t have to go through this. “That’s how he lived, right? We all were waiting for it.”
She stiffens. “I don’t believe that.”
“Mom, I know it’s probably not the time, but Shane—”
“Your brother was a good man.”
I stare at her, shaking my head. “Mom, come on. You’re really going to pretend right now? We don’t have to lie to each other. He’s dead. You can be honest.”
“Shane was my son. I loved him. He wasn’t perfect, but he tried his best.”
“He was a violent, drunk, womanizing asshole. I know you’re sad, but—”
Mom pulls away sharply. “Watch your mouth, Caroline.” She looks toward the bedroom door, and I realize she’s terrified. Her voice softens to a whisper. “Don’t you dare let them hear you talk that way.”
My guts clench. All my life, Mom’s been acting like nothing’s wrong. She tried over the years to protect me in her own twisted way. She’d warn me when the boys were in a mood, try to hide me, try to deflect Dad’s rages, but it rarely worked. It was always Mom who cleaned up their messes, who gave me icepacks, taught me how to cover up bruises, introduced me to long sleeves and dresses that hid my scars. But never, in all this time, has she ever actually admitted out loud what’s been going on.
“Shane did this.” I show her the scar on my neck. “Remember this one? From the screwdriver? I used all the hot water one night, and this was my punishment.”
Mom’s face twists. “Darling, please, now isn’t the time.”
“He did this and worse. You have to admit it. Please, Mom, I’m begging you—”
“No,” she hisses sharply. “He’s dead. That’s enough.”
I pull back. I’m shaking and I feel sick. I stand and back away. Mom watches, hugging herself.
“What do I have to do to get you to just admit it?” I whisper, fighting tears. “How much worse does it have to get?”
“Just go, Caroline. I can’t deal with this right now.”
I turn and leave my mother. I’m crying when I get downstairs. The boys probably think it’s for Shane. None of them get up to comfort me. After a few minutes, Dermot shoves a beer into my hands.
“Quit fucking blubbering,” he mutters and slaps me on the back. “He never liked you anyway.”
I bite my tongue, open the door, and stare at the TV.
Three brothers to go.
17
CAROLINE
The funeral’s scheduled for a Wednesday, just four days after Shane’s body was found beaten to a pulp in a brothel. Nobody’s talking about how he died. It’s like we all know Shane brought it on himself somehow. At least, that’s how it feels to me. Except Shane’s a dark pit in my heart, a shadow across my soul, a stain on everything that’s ever been good about me, and I’m not sure if I can get his last moments out of my head.
I put on a black dress, fix my hair, and do my makeup. I doubt I’m going to cry, but I shove tissues into my little black purse, just in case I have to put on a show.
Finn’s downstairs in a suit. He’s sipping whiskey and staring out the window at the skyline. We haven’t spoken much since it happened. Most days, he’s out dealing with work. I think sometimes he’s out with my brothers trying to find Shane’s killers. He’s probably having fun throwing them off our trail.
As far as I can tell, nobody suspects us, not even a little bit.
Which is insane. Can’t they see the blood all over my hands? Don’t they notice this ugly stain on my soul?
I helped murder my own brother.