Shane wasn’t the boy’s first name. It was his middle. Quincey Shane McAvoy. Heir to a soup empire turned chemical company turned international conglomerate that owned a good sixty percent of the items purchased in any grocery store. Aiden’s hands shook as he clicked the images tab, dreading what he would find.
The first images of Shane made Aiden’s blood run cold. Not because of his calculating stare or his charming smile completely devoid of any true feeling, but because, at a quick glance, Shane looked like Aiden at that age. They were both tall and lanky. Both had dyed their hair shock-white. They weren’t twins by any means, but the similarities were there. They were close enough to make him question everything, even his own sanity.
Was that why Thomas had agreed to take him in all those years ago? Because he reminded him of the person he lost? Did that make sense if Thomas pulled the trigger? Maybe it had nothing at all to do with Thomas and he was just projecting.
So then, did Thomas just have conflicted feelings about his friend and a heavy helping of survivor’s guilt? But Thomas himself said Shane was the catalyst to everything, the one who set it all in motion. How did Shane go from Thomas’s friend to a crime scene photo in the middle of Thomas’s dead family? What had been his ulterior motive?
Aiden brought his fist down on the desk and slammed the laptop shut before rocketing back in the chair hard enough to temporarily throw it off-balance. What the fuck was going on here?
Thomas stayed in the shower longer than he’d intended. He stayed under the spray until his fingers were pruned and goosebumps had erupted along his skin from the chill of the water. His head was a mess, his heart felt bruised, his psyche flayed open. And that had only been one part of the story. The easiest part. The most innocent part.
He’d hidden from his past for so long, but now, it was bubbling up from the cracks of his mind and he couldn’t push it away. He and Shane lying on the floor of the solarium, the shrill sounds of their parents’ laughter echoing from the ballroom down the hall as they regaled their rich friends with their business triumphs, usually at the expense of those less fortunate. Some things were still so clear. The pungent scent of night blooming jasmine. The smell of potting soil and fertilizer. The musty scent of the mist that would jet from the sprinklers at just the right intervals to keep the thousands of plants alive under the huge glass dome. The feel of Shane’s foot as it tapped rhythmically against Thomas’s while they talked.
“I hate them. I wish…”
“Wish what?”
“Nothing…”
“You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”
How was his voice still so clear in Thomas’s head all these years later but nothing else? The mind really was a strange creature. Memories were just neurons firing in various patterns, triggering a sequence of events that could make or break someone’s day based simply on what it pulled from archived files. Somewhere, Shane was an archived file. One Thomas had done his best to bury deep down. One he’d convinced himself was now only fragments of memories—nothing left that could hurt him.
And over the years, his hazy, broken thoughts of his past had convinced him he was right. That the truly horrible stuff was all gone, erased by time. But he’d been wrong. They were still there, still buried. Once too far away to see, but now almost crystal clear because he was right beside them down in that hole. And that hole was looking a lot like his own fucking grave.
But even down in it, even close enough to touch, it felt so far from him, so removed, like it had happened to someone else while he watched. But it wasn’t someone else. It was him. What would happen when Aiden knew the truth? The thought of it made Thomas want to vomit. If it was this hard to tell Aiden—who only thought the worst of him, who saw him when he was weak and petty and jealous—what would it be like telling his children? The ones who respected him? Who loved him? His family, as fucked up and dysfunctional as they were, they were his. His pride and joy. A shining example of his own fucking brilliance.
He snorted. His own fucking narcissism. It was all bullshit. Smoke and mirrors.
He swallowed back the helpless sound trying to break free. What was wrong with him? He needed to get it together, needed to try to put the armor back on. He needed to be the Thomas Mulvaney the world knew. Somehow. He’d never make it through this if he didn’t go back to faking it.
He took a deep breath and let it out, then wrenched the handle, abruptly cutting off the water before stepping out of the shower. He grabbed the heated towel, letting it return some of the warmth to his body as he dried himself briskly, before wrapping it around his waist and brushing his teeth.
He thought about shaving but quickly dismissed the idea. His hands were shaking so badly he’d likely need stitches before he finished. Instead, he scrubbed his hands over his face, then combed his fingers through his damp hair, his gaze falling to the large tattoo on his side.
His only tattoo.
Medusa holding the scales of justice, her hair made of seven snakes. One for each of them. His children. His weapons. His eyes burned as he blinked back tears. He’d been so fucking righteous. So convicted in his beliefs. No better than any religious zealot, killing in the name of their god. But Thomas had been his own god. Playing judge, jury, and executioner.
He was a hypocrite of the worst kind. How had he thought passing judgment on others would ever do anything to assuage him of his own guilt? He was no better than those he sentenced to death.
Jericho popped into his head then. Of all his sons-in-law, Jericho was the one who spoke his mind plainly. He’d told Thomas to his face that he’d made a mistake with Atticus. That he was no psychopath. That Thomas had taken someone soft and turned him into a monster to suit his own twisted need for vengeance. And Thomas had argued with him.
But maybe it was true. Atticus was content to spend his days in his lab and let Jericho—who was decidedlynota psychopath—do his killing for him. Jericho’s boys weren’t on the psychopathy spectrum either, but they did what needed to be done and they didn’t wrestle with their conscience about it. So, maybe he’d been all wrong. Maybe Thomas had gone so very wrong.
But…they were happy. His children were happy. Thomas had taken them from broken homes and taught them to kill, but he’d given them every advantage, had put them in circumstances where they’d met the people they loved. August and Lucas had children. Adam…his most broken child…had a boy he loved more than anything and two dogs he doted on. So, he wasn’t wrong. Right?
Project Watchtower was in its final phase. If everything Thomas believed was wrong, what did that mean for the thousands of children in various stages of the project? He closed his eyes, weary in his fucking bones. Had he saved his sons? Or had he turned them into monsters? Would he now be responsible for corrupting thousands of others who might have gone on to be normal upstanding citizens?
He flipped the light off, exiting the bathroom into his bedroom, these thoughts swirling round and round in his head. What if he was wrong? What if he was right? His brain was just an endless feedback loop of what if.
He was so in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Aiden sitting on the corner of his bed until he was almost on him. It brought him up short, his hand tangled in the second towel he’d looped around his neck.
Aiden leaned back on his hands, expression bleak. “He looks like me.”
Thomas blinked. “What?”
“He looks like me. Shane,” he clarified. “Looked, I guess.”
