Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(54)

“Thanks,” I manage. I showered, at least. That’s an achievement, under the circumstances.

Mum hurries in, as if she’s afraid to miss her chance before I slam the door. “You’re not looking after yourself. I’m worried.”

“I’m fine.” My voice is a wavering croak. I’m so not fine, and it’s not even funny. I follow Mum into my kitchen diner, embarrassed at the stack of unwashed coffee mugs and half-eaten chocolate bars dotted around the place.

“You’re not fine. Look at you.”

“It’s nearly nine, Mum. I’m hardly going anywhere.”

“You’re already wearing your coat.” She drags suspicious eyes up and down my outfit.

For a second, I’m terrified she can see the fresh wounds underneath, or the bulge of the hand gun shoved into my pocket.

“I have to go talk to Aeron,” I say as casually as possible. “He just left the station…they’ve been questioning him all day.”

Mum pulls my fridge open and yanks out a half-finished bottle of white wine. Then she swipes two glasses off the draining board and fills them in shaking glugs.

“Just make yourself at home,” I mutter.

“You haven’t been returning my calls.” She ignores my remark and puts the wine bottle into the recycling bin. “You haven’t been returning my emails. I learned that you sold your goddamn company on Facebook. And then I learned who you sold it to.” She twists to stare at me, and then downs half her wine. Her throat bobs with the strain of it. “I buy gossip magazines and they’re suddenly full of pictures of my daughter on the arm of that—that monster—!”

Something inside me baulks, wavers…and snaps. “He’s not…he’s…”

He is a monster.

I know that.

How stupid does she think I am?

“It’s not what you think,” I finish.

“But it is! Look at you, Leo, he’s all over you! You’re fading away.” Her voice cracks, and her eyes turn glassy with furious tears. “How could you? What kind of ridiculous game is this?”

“It’s not a game. Mum, he doesn’t know…he doesn’t know who I am!”

“Don’t be so obtuse. Of course he knows.”

“No, he doesn’t. I can’t explain it, I—” It doesn’t matter how I phrase this; it sounds unhinged because that’s exactly what it is. “He has feelings for me.”

Mum takes another huge swig of wine, then sags back against the kitchen unit. “Can you even hear yourself? He’s a murderer.”

“I know.” My breath comes in sharp bursts. “He’s even worse than I thought he’d be.” And yet better. Strangely, dangerously better. Sometimes, cages come with pumpkin carriages and glass slippers, and you don’t remember their shadowy origins until the bars clink closed and you’re surrounded by rats instead of men.

“And what happens when he finds out who you are? What you know? Then, what?”

The gun feels heavy in my pocket. Powerful. Safe. If I could get away with it, I’d give it a quick squeeze, like a lover.

“You going to sail off into the sunset and have lots of little killer babies? Is that what you want?” she spits. Each word is like a bullet.

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. My jaw trembles. “No.”

“Your father called. He’s excited for you.” Her upper lip curls in scorn.

“He sent me flowers.” A glorious bunch of roses and peonies that take pride of place on my office window ledge.

“Well bra-f*cking-vo for him.” She hunches. Her keening sob cuts through me like a siren. “He can’t see his little girl breaking into pieces while she plays house with a killer.”

“We’re not playing house,” I snap. “It’s not like that. I’m just trying to make things better, that’s all.”

“How does this make anything better?” she sobs. “There’s no way out of this. Not once you get close. You think there’s any way to take the poison out of a man who kills his own mother? No. It rots everything. It started way before he was born, and it will end way after him when it seeps into that little boy of his. Then it’ll get its teeth into you. It never stops.”

She hasn’t even offered me that second glass of wine. How odd. All the world seems odd today, fading in and out with her rasping voice. Every time I open my mouth, I have to wade through so many secrets that I tie my tongue in knots. Who is this person, and what, if I recall correctly, do they know?

“Don’t go out,” she begs. “Don’t go to him, honey. We’ll watch a movie, I’ll cook something…”

“I need to talk to him about Tuija,” I say quietly. Firmly. I sound so cold.

She holds her hand out. Expects me to take it. “You’re shivering.”

“I’ve had a rough couple of days.”

“This is my fault. I know that. I can’t help the past, but you can still get away. Before…”

Before he kills you. Before you’re next.

I force myself to give her an icy little smile. “I’m going be fine. It’ll all be fine.”

“You think you’re safer living in his pocket? Is that what this is?”