DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER THREE

Nuzzling my cheek against the remaining scent of my son, I sought comfort, closeness, and a random series of flash cards unlocked in the deepest depths of my mind.

I spaced out, travelled to the past and watched as three-year-old Carter Hughes, wearing animal print pyjamas, jumped on Benjamin's double bed. Even though his uncle told him not to, he kicked pillows overboard, laughing at his own mischievousness.

Then, he scurried down from the bed, brushed right past me like a breath of fresh air, his small hand grazing my thigh, and wobbled down the hall.

Breath abandoning me, I watched as Ben ran after the little terror with feigned peevishness. He caught up, wrapped Carter in his arms and lunged across the sofa in a chuckling heap of happiness.

I stared down the empty hall to the sound of their disembodied laughter, remembering the occurrence as though it happened yesterday, the feeling of joy and fulfilment as if they were present.

My son.

My only child.

My little human.

Carter is not here, laughing or smiling. He is gone. I had no answers, understanding or closure. He could be in pain, scared and alone, beaten or starved.

Or worse, Carter could be dead, thrown in a ditch, a filthy gutter, and here I stand, safe and warm, eating fucking Smarties.

My memories will not be sullied.

I hurled the bag of sugar-coated buttons on the floor, scattering noisily. One drifted astray, rolled beneath the relic credenza, out of sight, out of mind. I thought about going to my knees to clean up the mess I had caused.

Taking my phone off do-not-disturb, I prepared for the barrage of text messages and missed calls. Twenty-three missed calls. Some of the callers had left voicemails.

Listening to the messages on the loudspeaker, I put the phone on the windowsill and started to clean my bedroom. I climbed out of bed this morning like a half-brained lurdan, without so much as kicking the quilt back or fixing the sheet.

"Hey, girl!" Quinn's chipper voice came first. "I called twice and got diverted to your voicemail box, which is normal because you never answer my calls anymore."

Drawing open the curtains, I unlocked the window to generate fresh air.

"Anyway, I will be going out with the work girls this weekend and wondered if you'd like to come with us?" It sounded like a question. "I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to. You probably don't want to drink or dance right now. Or, maybe you do want that. Perhaps that's exactly what you need."

Puffing the pillows on the bed, I sprayed the linen with a blossom-and-breeze-scented fabric freshener.

"Unless you'd rather have a quiet night in?" Her despondency turned into hopefulness. "I could come over for a sleepover for old times' sake. I would love that so much. I haven't seen your new place yet."

Quinn visited once a week, but I never opened the door. She sits outside on the floor, her back to the wall, and has a one-way conversation with the letterbox while sipping takeaway coffee.

"We can order takeout, make some cocktails, watch a scary movie and even put on some face masks." She exhaled loudly through the phone. "What do you say?"

I had no interest in takeout, cocktails, movies or self-care. I barely made time to brush my hair in the morning.

"Please return my call." A long pause. "I am worried about you."

Dumping clean laundry onto the Moroccan-inspired rug, I sat cross-legged on the floor and put fresh-smelling pyjamas into the solid oak-wood storage chest.