The whiskey goes down easier than the vodka.
Jason's alive because Father's dead. That's what Alex said. That simple. That brutal.
And I'm supposed to what? Understand? Forgive? Lead the family that's built on that kind of bloodshed?
My phone buzzes again. The screen lights up with Aidan's name. That's the fifth call in the last hour. Or maybe the tenth. I've lost count.
He'll want to know if I'm ready for the O'Rourkes. If I've showered. If I've eaten. If I'm sober enough to meet my future fucking wife.
I'm not.
I take another drink and let the phone ring out. The silence afterward is worse than the buzzing. It feels like judgment. Like everyone on the other end is waiting for me to fail.
They won't have to wait long.
The attack came out of nowhere: the memory I've been trying to drown. The alleyway outside the medical examiner's office. The weight of something hitting my skull. The way the world went sideways and everything turned red.
I thought I was going to die that night. Wanted to, maybe. Would've been easier than this.
Jason found me bleeding out in that alley. And I paid him back by refraining from putting a bullet in his brain when I found out he'd betrayed us.
Turns out we're all betrayers in this family. All liars. All murderers.
The room spins harder. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spinning, trying to stop seeing Father's face. But it's always there. Purple. Swollen. Eyes bulging. Tongue...
"Stop," I say out loud. My voice sounds wrecked. "Stop, stop, stop."
But it doesn't stop. It never stops.
I helped cut him down. Did Aidan tell anyone that? Did Alex know I was the one who held Father's weight while the Gardaí worked the rope loose? That I felt how cold he was? That I knew, I fucking knew, something wasn't right about those knots?
I told them. I told Jason and Aidan and anyone who would listen that Father didn't tie those knots. That someone staged it. That someone murdered him.
And I was right.
Just didn't know it was my own brother.
The hunting knife is still missing from the drawer. Alex took it. Must have used it to cut the rope after he...
After he what? Hit Father over the head? Knocked him unconscious? Strung him up while he was still breathing?
I know the answers. I saw them with my own eyes. No claw marks on his neck. No scratches. His hands stayed at his sides while the rope did its work. That's what made it look so convincing, so much like he'd chosen it.
But now I know the truth. He never got the chance to fight. Alex made sure of that. Knocked him out first, probably. Made it clean. Made it look peaceful.
Made it look like Father gave up on us.
My stomach lurches. I barely make it to the waste bin before I'm retching, bringing up vodka and whiskey and bile. Nothing solid. I haven't eaten in days. Can't remember the last time I did.
The vomiting leaves me weak, shaking worse than before. I slide down to the floor, back against the desk, and let my head fall back.
My phone buzzes. Again. This time it's a text from Aidan:
“The O'Rourkes will be here in 24 hours. Shower. Eat something. Try to look like you're not falling apart.”
I laugh. It comes out harsh and broken. Try to look like I'm not falling apart? I'm fucking shattered. Have been since the day I found Father. Since before that, maybe. Since I was a kid and realized that Father looked at me with disappointment so thick it choked the air from the room.
"You're not Alex," he'd say. "You're not even Jason. You're just...William."
