It wasn't long after Evelyn's nanny had brought soup and bread to them for lunch, that Connor realized the time, and that he had to leave. The nanny—an older woman who was nothing like the maids his father had—rarely said a word to Connor when she was around, but he was thankful she had reminded him of the time.
He'd been gone too long.
Evelyn's father had said his visit would be a short one, but he must have not minded him being there after all.
Connor didn't really want to go, but it was better he did before his father came looking for him.
That didn't stop him from taking the walk home a bit slower than he normally would. Even with his winter clothes on, the chill still seeped through the heavy fabrics, making him shiver. His boots crunched on the snow with every step he took. The cold weather made him think of the last two kittens denning under the old shed with their mother. He was happy that Kitty had a good, warm home with Evelyn, but he worried about the others.
Connor settled himself on checking the cats before he went home, despite knowing he should go right inside.
As he rounded the final turn on the path that would lead him to the spot where he could come out of the woods behind the shed and not be seen from the house, Connor knew something was ... off. The denseness of the woods was lessened after the leaves had fallen, leaving the tree line more open than it was during the rest of the year. He could see from his position on the turn that the trail he had made from the back of the house to the shed, and then to the woods, was more beaten down than it was that morning when he'd left.
His father rarely came outside when he wanted Connor out of the house—Sean never buggered about in the shed, if he did come outside. Yet, the closer Connor came, the more obvious it was to him that the large footprints in the snow overtop his likely belonged to his father.
Connor suddenly felt much colder than he had just minutes ago, and he didn't think it was because of the weather, either.
His hands balled into fists as he pushed his way out of the bushes at the tree line, his fingernails cutting into his skin as his fear increased. Sure enough, his father's footprints had gone all the way back to the hole behind the shed, and then back toward the house.
He'd found the cats.
Connor's teeth hurt, his jaw was clenching so hard. His gaze darted past the shed to the house, and he found himself blinking rapidly to hold back the swell of tears coming on.
He knew exactly what it meant that his father had found the cats. His stomach twisted, his throat tightening as the taste of the chicken soup he'd eaten at Evelyn's rose into his mouth.
He felt stupid.
A stupid lad.
He should have known better than to leave something like a trail of his footprints, for his father to follow, that would lead the man straight to Connor's cats. He'd known full and well how much Sean despised animals, had known perfectly well what he did to neighborhood strays and the pets of their neighbors if he thought he could get away with it.
And Sean always got away with it.
A hot rush of something Connor didn't understand filled him, from the soles of his boots to the top of his sweaty head. It made his fists clench even tighter, until he felt the skin of his palms break from his fingernails digging through the flesh, and his jaw crack with pain as a puff of white air blew from his nose in a clipped exhale.
He was mad, too.
So feckin' mad.
Connor was angry at himself for making such a foolish mistake. He was angry at his father for ... being the way he was, something Connor knew all too well, tried to avoid, and usually ended up failing at in the end. This was going to be no different, apparently.
He supposed that meant he was mostly angry at himself.
His father was who he was.
Connor couldn't help that, only avoid it.
Knowing that didn't help.
They were just cats.
They didn't hurt anybody, not him, and certainly not his father. Sean hadn't even known about the cats this whole time Connor was looking after them.
Why did he even care?
Connor headed for the back of the house, knowing there was nothing he could do and getting more pissed off the closer he came to the back porch. What was done, was already done, likely. His father had probably already killed the cats, and Connor would be left with listening to his father gloat about what he'd done, and probably dodge a slap or two for lying about the animals being under the old shed.
Or, that's what he hoped he would find.
But he wasn't entirely sure what to expect, either.
This was a first.
Not knowing his father's rage was waiting; not knowing he'd done something wrong and his father had found out; not even knowing a beating was coming. No, none of that was new.
But the fear he felt about what could be waiting—that was new.
Still, Connor didn't show how he felt as he opened up the back door to find the house was quiet on the inside. He shuffled out of his winter clothing, his gaze staying peeled on the hallway that lead to the main rooms on the bottom floor. He put away his things as he always did, knowing that leaving them out would only earn him more punishment at the end of the day.
He certainly didn't need or want more.
Connor found the new maid—Missy—in the kitchen, sitting in the middle of the room on a chair with a garbage can between her legs, and a twenty-pound bag of potatoes at her side. On her other side, a clear bowl rested, overflowing with peeled potatoes. She barely even passed him a look, simply dropped another peeled vegetable to the large pile and grabbed another.
It was too many potatoes to eat.
Too many for them.
Connor wasn't supposed to talk to her, but he couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing?"
Missy didn't look up from her task, replying, "Learning."
He didn't understand, but he supposed he wasn't meant to.
"Your father is upstairs in the bathroom," Missy said. "He said that's where you were to go when you got home."
Connor flinched inwardly, and turned on his heel to follow the direction without so much as a goodbye to the young lass behind him, who looked as though she could be his older sister sometimes. He tried not to think on that too much, because he knew that it wouldn't do him any good, and it certainly wouldn't help Missy, either.
Connor found his father waiting, leaning in the doorway of the upstairs bathroom with a hammer in one hand hanging limp at his waist, and a smoldering cigarette dangling from the fingers of his other hand. Sean looked him up and down, his usual sneer permanently in place.
"Where have you been all day, lad?"
"Playing."
"Where?"
"In the trails," Connor lied.
He wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew there was no way his father would react well to finding out he had spent the day in Evelyn's house. It wasn't in Sean's nature to like anything Connor did, truthfully.
His father lifted his cigarette for a drag, the heavy smoke lingering just above his head in a thick cloud as he exhaled. That twisting knot in Connor's stomach only got tighter—made him feel sicker—the longer he was forced to stand there, waiting on his father to speak again.
He wished he could blame it on Sean.
Or the smell of the smoke.
Maybe even the hammer still hanging from his father's hand.
Truth was, Connor couldn't blame any of those things.
What made him feel so sick—in his gut, heart, and head—was the soft cries of several cats, meowing he recognized, coming from somewhere inside the bathroom behind his father.
Was he going to make Connor watch him kill the cats?
Was that his plan, now?
It wouldn't be the first time his father had done something of the sort, but that didn't mean it would be easy, or that he wanted to.
"Went looking for you around lunch—thought you might be hungry," Sean said. "Called for you for minutes, then I followed your tracks. How long have the wee bastards been living under the shed out there?"
Connor chose not to lie. "Since autumn."
"All three of 'em, huh?"
He kept his mouth shut on that one.
No need to say there had been another his father didn't know about.
Sean sucked on his teeth, his gaze blank but sharp, making Connor want to look away. He didn't, it wouldn't do well for him if he had. "You know how I feel about animals, Connor."
Surprised to be called by his name instead of the usual "lad" or "bastard" his father almost always used, Connor was taken off guard. "I know, but—"
"But what?"
"They were outside, I just found them one day."
Sean made a disgusted noise under his breath. "Disgusting things—crawling through everything, carrying sickness, and they're all nothing more than flea-bitten creatures."
Connor didn't argue, but only because it wouldn't help to. Not because he agreed with his father.
"All's well that ends well, I suppose," Sean finally said, raising his hand that held the hammer. "And on that note, you can be the one to finish them, since you were also the one who allowed them, when you knew better."
Connor blinked, unsure and cold in his heart. "What?"
Sean wiggled the hammer, holding it closer to his son. "Take it, and finish it."
No.
The horror of what his father was telling him to do must have been written as clear as day on Connor's face, because with a hearty laugh, Sean shoved the hammer into his son's hand. Then, before Connor could even refuse or step out of his father's reach, he found himself grabbed by the back of his neck, the collar of his shirt choking him as he was shoved roughly into the bathroom, making him trip over his own two feet.
"But—"
Sean blocked the bathroom doorway as Connor turned around to bolt. "You're not going anywhere 'til the red runs down the drain, lad."
Connor's mouth went dry. "I can't ..."
"You can. We all can." Sean rubbed at his cheek, drawing Connor's attention to the rows of scratches just beneath his father's five o'clock shadow. "Hurry—I'm feckin' knackered, I've dealt with enough from one eejit in this house, today. I'm not about to deal with another. I'm sure you'll make a good mess, as I want you to. Maybe that bitch downstairs will have to clean for long enough that her hands will be too sore to raise the next time I tell her to stay down like the whore she is."
Connor didn't move, only stared at his father, trying to get his six-year-old mind to catch up to speed with what he was being told, and what he was expected to do.
It didn't help.
It certainly didn't work.
He held the hammer tighter to his chest, the weight of it substantial, though he didn't understand why, as he'd held one before.
It was only the soft meowing of the kittens in the bathtub that broke Connor from his daze. His gaze darted to the right, and it took him far too long to understand the mass of moving black plastic he was seeing. The cats were in a garbage bag, tied at the top, sitting in the tub.
Waiting.
For him, apparently.
"I've made it easy on you for the mother," Sean said. "Her legs are broke."
Connor looked from the hammer, to the moving bag, and then back to his father. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"Hit them."
Like that?
With them in the bag?
That would be awful!
It could take three swings, if he knew where the heads were, but it was more likely to take fifty damn swings, and that would be torture. That was unfair—only a monster would do something like that to innocent animals who didn't even understand why they were being hurt in the first place.
"Or," Sean drawled, bringing in Connor's attention again, "you can pull them from the bag, know where they are, and watch what you're doing while you do it. It's up to you—have a conscience or don't; I don't give a damn, but you're taking too long to decide, and I'm about to show you how to start."
Connor didn't like that idea at all.
His father wouldn't make it easy on any of the cats; it wasn't in his father's nature to be kind, or to show mercy.
Connor knew that all too well.
His hands shook, sickness spilled onto the back of his tongue, and his eyes burned with the tears he held back, but Connor faced the reality, even though it made him feel terrible inside to do it. He would kill the cats—he would do it because he was the merciful one, he cared.
He would make it quick. He pulled out his pocket knife, sharp and ready, as it always was, and dropped the hammer to the tiled floor with a loud clang. He kept his eyes glued on the shower wall as he ripped a hole into the garbage bag, and pulled out the first cat—the black and white kitten.
He was quick—careful.
He didn't cry.
He didn't say a word.
He tried not to think.
He felt colder than ever.
His father laughed the whole time.
Red ran down the drain like Sean had wanted, and it even sprayed the walls, and soaked into Connor's clothes, too.
Who knew something so wee could have so much blood?
Who knew?
• • •
"Declan."
"Sean."
Connor peeked around the corner of the main room's entryway, careful to keep himself hidden from view of the men in the large entrance of the home. It didn't seem to matter—neither of the men noticed him spying, and while he knew better, he couldn't help himself.
Visitors were not uncommon for his father.
Evelyn's father—Declan—was entirely unusual.
"I'd say it's a pleasure to have you here, but ..." Sean trailed off with a smile that felt far too cold to be true. "You know how it goes, Declan."
Declan nodded, saying nothing. Even when Connor's father stepped back a foot, his arm widening outward as if to offering the other man to come further into the house, Declan didn't move an inch. His gaze never left Sean, either.
It was as if he didn't trust Connor's father.
Not to walk past him, not to get too close, and not even to turn his back to him.
Connor had seen enough—and heard enough—to know there were plenty of people who thought Declan was the most powerful Irishman in the state of New Jersey and New York. They talked about him with an air of respect, some with admiration, and others with fear.
Everyone, that was, except Connor's father.
"You want a drink?" Sean asked. "Whiskey, or some black stuff? I've got pints in the fridge."
Declan still didn't move. "No need. I'm not staying—pleasantries aren't needed today."
"Be that as it may, I'm thirsty."
"I'm not," Declan said firmly.
Again, neither man moved an inch.
Connor was entirely unsure of what he was witnessing. The room felt different—usually his home was so cold, and not from lack of heat, but from a certain lack of emotion from the people within it. Blankness and blackness stared back from the eyes that watched him, but he knew, from seeing other families, that it was not the way it should be.
This wasn't the same.
A pressure seemed to build, the longer the two men stayed like statues, staring at one another, and refusing to budge even an inch for the other. An invisible pressure, an exchange of sorts.
"Then what do you want?" Sean asked, his tone as sharp as ever. "Because I know you didn't make your way over here to bust my balls for not showing up to the meet yesterday. I wasn't feckin' needed, Declan. I'm only needed when someone needs to hurt."
A tic moved in Declan's jaw. "I'm aware."
"Then what are you here for?"
"You've got another lass—younger, they said. Much younger."
"Oh, this nonsense again?" Sean said, scoffing. "You're a gobshite, Declan."
"Did you get her from the same place as the last, or are you entertaining new traders?"
"It's not your concern."
"It is, if they begin knocking on my or my men's doors, Sean."
Sean laughed under his breath, shaking his head with a grin. "Like you, they've got a healthy fear of me, and for good reason. Don't go worrying over that, it'll do you no good. Don't bring that trouble to your own doorstep."
Declan straightened a bit, his face draining of color. "I'm not a fool; I'm not going to go looking for trouble, Sean."
"Then why bother making your way over here for this, if you already knew the answer I was going to give you?"
"How young is she?" Declan asked, ignoring the question from Sean.
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters."
"It didn't matter almost six years ago, when it was your wife shoving pills down her throat to make herself feel better for what she didn't have, now did it?"
Declan tipped his chin up higher. "It's not the same thing."
"It is. It is exactly the same."
"You showed up with her, practically threw her at us. You knew Marie would take her, and never ask where you got her from. You knew my wife was suffering, and I couldn't even let Marie take her out of the house! How was I going to refuse my wife when she saw the one thing she wanted and couldn't have—we never asked, Sean."
"You never said no, Declan."
"How old is she?" the other man asked once more.
"Feckin' hell, what does it matter?"
"Because I asked."
"Fourteen, maybe."
What color was left in Declan's face was gone in an instant. Sean chuckled in response, but otherwise, said nothing.
"That isn't even the age—"
"She may not be, but she will be eventually, and I do like the process," Sean interrupted.
"You said once—"
"I said what, Declan?"
"I watch the news, Sean. I keep up, like any intelligent fool should do. It was getting out of hand, I allowed you this shite to quiet the rest, but it hasn't, has it? I watch the feckin' news."
"Perhaps you shouldn't," Sean murmured.
"You're not careful anymore, either. Others have brought things to my attention—why do you think I'm here? Do you think I like spending time anywhere near you?"
"Ouch, brother, that hurts."
Declan scoffed. "Feck off. You're not my brother—he found you in the rubbish bin like the trash you are, Sean, and he should have left you there, too."
Sean smiled. "On that, we can both agree."
• • •
Connor wasn't quite sure what exactly had woken him, but as he rolled over in his bed, he quickly realized it was too early for his school alarm. He relied on his alarm because his father made no effort to make sure he got to school on time; all of that responsibility fell on Connor.
He didn't really mind; he enjoyed school.
The murmurings coming from somewhere outside of his bedroom woke Connor up even more, his curiosity getting the better of him, even while he knew spying had done nothing good for him lately. Still, he followed the voices, grabbing a sweater to pull on over his fleece pajamas because the house seemed colder than normal.
On bare feet, he padded quietly down the stairs and peeked around the corner. There at the front door stood his father, tall, formidable, and as always, cold. Just beyond where Sean stood, outside on the cold, frozen over step, was a police officer in his full uniform.
No wonder the house was cold.
The wind blew in from the open door, filling the house with the usual scent of winter, cold air, and ... something else.
Connor sniffed, trying to figure out where he had smelled that strange, heady scent before. It was right on the tip of his tongue—a memory wanting out, but something else snagged his attention. The conversation happening on the doorstep.
"It was destroyed in minutes—the department didn't have a lot to save once they got there," the officer explained.
Sean's hand clenched against the door, as though he was considering shutting it. "Unfortunate."
"You're telling me that you didn't hear a thing, Mr. O'Neil? None of the sirens, nothing?"
"I live a block away. There are patches of trees big enough for the kids around here to make trails. No, I didn't hear anything."
The officer nodded. "You are the only known family member."
"Our father died a decade ago."
"My condolences." Sean didn't look like he cared, and so the officer continued on with, "Identification won't be needed, but we do have another question."
"About what?" Sean asked.
"Part of the house that wasn't entirely destroyed housed the bedrooms in the bungalow. We understand your brother's wife died—"
"Almost five years ago. Ovarian cancer that was misdiagnosed. What does this have anything to do with what happened last night?"
"There were no children for the couple on record—no births, none entered into the school system. None on record as having visited the family doctor your brother was known to use."
Now, Connor's father was not as blank and cold as he had been before. Now, his knuckles were turning white from the pressure of squeezing the door with all his damn might.
"There is a bedroom in that house," the officer said, staring Sean straight in the face, "and while some of it was destroyed, there was more than enough for the men to discern toys, dresses, pink sheets, stuffed animals, and even some children's nail polish, hidden under a charred pillow."
Charred.
As soon as Connor heard that word, he sniffed the air again.
There it was ...
That memory ...
The sulfur and burnt wood smell every time he'd hit the match head against the rough strip on the side of the cardboard package. He'd found the matches, half empty, in the junk drawer one afternoon when it was raining outside. He'd burned so many matches that his entire room smelled of smoke, ash, and burnt wood.
"My brother and I—" Sean started to say, only to be stopped by the officer holding up a hand.
"The bigger problem at the moment, Mr. O'Neil, is that only one body was recovered."
Connor let go of the memory. He had to listen to this instead. Somehow, he knew it was important, and it was probably going to hurt, but he needed to hear.
"We know there was a child in that house—a girl—but she isn't in there now," the officer said. "Neighbors confirmed it. Evelyn, they said her name was. She didn't leave the property very often, they assumed she was homeschooled by the nanny that came and went every day, and some reported they had seen the little girl playing with your son."
Connor stiffened, his natural urge to run beginning to settle in deep inside his gut.
"The house is all but leveled, you said it yourself," Sean replied.
"Not all. Almost."
"Same difference. I can't help you, but if there was a girl in that house, who's to say she isn't still there, under the debris somewhere?"
"She should have been sleeping in her bed," the officer said.
Sean shrugged. "Children do strange things."
"Especially children that don't exist." The officer smiled, but it didn't come off as friendly. "Blunt force trauma killed your brother, Mr. O'Neil, and he was damn close to the front door where he was found. Evidence of accelerant has been found. This is nothing like what it looks like on the outside. We're aware of your family's control, regarding the mob here in Jersey."
Sean still didn't appear to be bothered by the information. "I don't have anything to tell you about that, either."
"I bet you don't."
"Get off of my steps, now." Sean stepped back, already closing the door.
"We'll be back to talk again," the officer said, his voice muffled.
Sean let the doorclose before he muttered to himself, "Should have stayed in feckin' bed."