Lucian takes off his long wool coat. It strikes me as the most unpractical thing to wear in this situation. The hoodie below it is smattered with holes as he pulls at it before taking it off and dropping it to the ground.
“We’re on the same side.” Sitting, he pulls the Velcro straps of his bulletproof vest open and takes it off. It’s only when he ducks his head to do so, I notice the lightly bleeding graze at the side of his neck.
Ryan chuckles dryly, but his hands come down. I’m not sure if it’s because he believes Lucian or because he’s in too much pain to keep them up.
“You shot me.”
“Yeah,” Lucian sighs again, nonchalantly. “I did.”
There’s a silent pause. Ryan’s anger is palpable as I step away from him and sit back in my chair before pushing the one beside me out for him.
The twinges have been becoming stronger the last couple of days. One minute they’re there, tensing every one of my muscles, and the next they’re gone.
“You shot me first.” Lucian shrugs, placing his weapon on the table.
I don’t like the sight of it. It makes me nervous, even though I’m certain that if he’d wanted to hurt me, he would’ve done so already.
“Repeatedly, I might add,” he offers further to his previous statement. “Quite frankly I don’t see why we’re dwelling on that when we have more important things to discuss.”
Lucian crosses his arms over his chest. He looks better than the last time I saw him.
He smiles at me softly. “You look good. Healthy.”
I have no idea what to reply to that. Prior to today, Lucian has never paid me any mind. I’m nobody to him. His son’s girlfriend’s friend.
“Thank you.” I muster the words, but the smell gets to me again, and before I start spewing everywhere, I open the back door, my palm stinging as I use my hand.
Ugh, great. I wince while I pull my sleeve down and use it to clean up the already drying blood.
“I once made Grace a promise,” Lucian says from where he’s sitting.
My attention completely draws to him at the mention of my mother.
“I’ve always kept my promises to her.” There’s a disappointed edge to his voice, partly tinged with sadness. And it makes me feel all the loss I’m shrouded by.
The edges of the hole inside fray some more, the void spreading, infecting all the parts that are left of me with its sorrow. Turning back to the open doorway, I brush away the cobwebs, buying myself some time for composure, trying to breathe as much of the fresh, rain-scented air into my lungs.
I want to erase the putrid stench of death. But I can’t rid myself of it because it’s me. I’m the rotten fruit. The poisoned apple.
And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It may tumble a few paces, but it never out rolls the roots. They’re too far reaching.
“My mother was sick,” I say, turning to face him. Ryan is still standing; I can feel his gaze on me. “She’s the reason your son is dead.”
It’s the truth and he knows it. It’s written all over his bereft face. The shadows darken, making him look every bit the villain with their gaunting chisel.
Still, the way in which he’s looking at me is soft. Warm even. I don’t understand it, and it annoys me more
than I believe it should.
“Kit’s not dead because of Grace. I can’t blame her for something that’s not her fault.” He swallows, his face contorting like it’s a bitter pill.
He blames her for something. I can see it, but I’m unable to ask specifics as my own blame flames through me.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Does it?
No. No, it doesn’t. I answer my own question.
Maybe I’m as mad as she was. Maybe I’m crazy for ever thinking that any of this can be fixed. Deluded to ever allow myself to hope that things would end differently, and that Casper would ever be mine. Really mine. Truly.