She looks away but doesn’t respond. I turn from her and walk to the door. My father waits.
I shut it behind me, my mind occupied with so many questions about her that I nearly collide into Islan.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” I mutter. “Damn near scared the hell out of me.”
She doesn’t even flinch. “I wanted to see where you took her.”
“Well, now you know, but you ought to know better than to snoop around these parts. Honest to God, Islan. I could’ve done things to her you’d not want to be privy to.” In fact, that’s exactly what I intend on doing.
She shakes her head. “Like I fucking care if you snog a woman, Leith.”
I stifle a groan. Snogging. Really, Islan, that’s the best you can come up with?
She looks over her shoulder. “I just wondered what she’s like. We haven’t had a woman here in so bloody long, it feels like?—”
Ohh, no she doesn’t. I take her by the arm and wag my finger at her. “Now, look here, Islan. You fucking listen to me well.”
She tries to yank her arm away, but I don’t allow her to.
“Let me the fuckgo,” she fumes, but I hold her tight.
“This woman saw me murder a fucking rival tonight. If she so much as breathes a word to the authorities, and they corroborate evidence, your bonnie wee home here’s fucked. Do you understand that?”
She blinks, still trying to tear her arm away. “Aye, of course.”
“You’re not to go in there. You’re not to speak to her. And so help me, if I catch you interfering in any way?—”
Her eyes flash at me. “You’ll ground me to the house, then? Fucking keep me home like you threatened Paisley?”
“Precisely.”
She finally does tear herself away and storms off down the hall, rubbing her arm and muttering things to herself like, “can’t wait to move away,” and “thinks he’s the boss of me,” and “too fucking full of himself.”
I let her go and head downstairs to see my father. He’s waited long enough, and I know better than to leave him waiting. I pause at the landing. Listening. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. Do I expect my silent captive to suddenly burst into song or something? Jesus.
My father’s waiting by the fire, a stout glass of whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other. My mother sits beside him, nursing a cold pint.
“Y’alright, Leith?” she asks. She smiles, though it doesn’t quiet reach her eyes.
“Aye, Mum. You?”
She looks back to the fire and slowly nods. “Oh, I’m fine. Heard you brought us a guest?”
I walk to the sideboard, take a glass, toss ice in it and pour myself a glass of whisky. I don’t reply until I’ve taken a good, cleansing pull from it.
“I’ve brought us a prisoner and witness, aye.”
“What’d she witness, son?”
Before I can respond, there’s a scuffle at the door outside the study, and a moment later, the dog we brought home comes bounding in.
“Get over here!” Islan yells. She stops short when she sees me. “He ran away.” I don’t reply, but watch as she chases him down and heads to the door. I have a sneaking suspicion she let him in here just so she could eavesdrop.
“Take him to your room for the evening, Islan. We’ll have to see about training him in the morning.”
“Training,” she mutters, scowling at me. “All he fucking talks about.”
“Islan!” Mum looks at her in astonishment. My father looks from me to Islan with mild interest, then takes another sip of his whisky and another pull from his cigar. His face is clouded behind a billow of smoke.
