Not like Adeola.
Worse.
Dad said I was a monster.
Ten years old
“How was school?” Mum called from the kitchen when she heard me shut the door.
Before I could answer, she was already in the hallway, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“I only just got in from work and I put your favourite on.”
I could smell the raw meat. My mouth watered.
“School was good,” I lied, letting her hug me.
School was boring. I learned more from library books and the internet.
“Oh, that’s great, Blaidd,” she sighed, her relief obvious.“Go and get changed and relax. Dinner won’t be long.”
I went to my room. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. I slipped my backpack from my shoulder and carried it to my desk. My homework was already done on the bus, but I laid it out anyway for my mother to see. I set my bag beneath the desk.
My daily routine was always the same, with minimal disruption over the weekends. Mum knew not to push me to make friends—she’d learned that the hard way.
I unclipped my tie, folding it around my fingers three times before placing it in my blazer pocket. After changing into joggers and a hoodie, I put my shirt in the laundry basket and hung my clothes neatly in the wardrobe.
I didn’t study for my teachers or for good test marks. I studied everything because I was curious to see how it worked.
As I looked around our new home, bare of furniture and the things we’d had in our old house, I understood that money was everything.
It could take or give—but most of all, it was powerful.
I opened my laptop and it came to life, the rickety fan humming.
Power. The whispered word came again.
The powerful got away with everything. Theft. Murder. All lawful under the right circumstances. History always repeated itself—only now it was wrapped in the guise of civility.
I smiled and sat back in front of the screen.
Chapter 2
Blaidd
Twenty-seven years old
She was pale and worn, even with the makeup they’d applied. I trailed my knuckles down her cold cheek. My mother could rest now and fret no more.
In the end, I’d made her proud.
She believed the lies. Her love for me clouded her judgment, and if I had a heart, I might have loved her for it.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead—the same way she used to kiss mine when I was a child.
She didn’t smell the same, even with her usual perfume.
And I knew the scent of dead bodies well.
