He opens a large door to a room that’s lined with books and drags me in. I wish I could speak. I’d tell him he doesn’t need to drag me around like this, that I’m fully capable of walking of my own accord. And really, have I given him any indication whatsoever that I’ll run?
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a large, comfortable-looking dark brown sofa. I obey, sitting primly on the edge. He doesn’t speak at first, pacing about the room with his hands in his pocket. “And to think,” he mutters as if to himself, “all this time I thought she was willfully silent, and she can’t fucking speak.” He looks up at me and scowls so harshly I flinch.
It isn’t my fault,I think at him, glaring.
“Don’t you give me that look,” he warns, wagging a finger in my direction. I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him like Islan did, when the door to the study opens, and the younger sister walks in, not realizing at first we’re there. She’s got a mobile up to her ear and she’s speaking in hushed tones, but when she sees Leith glaring at her, she nearly drops it.
“Oh my, I’m so sorry!” she says. “Didn’t know this room was occupied.”
“Get out,” he growls. She turns and fairly runs.
Why do you have to be such a dick to everyone?
It’s probably a good thing he can’t hear me.
He stalks over to the desk and grabs a Cambridge yellow legal pad. He practically shoves it in my hands, then gives me a blue pen with the Scottish flag on it.
“I’ll ask, you write.”
I nod. Fair enough. I’m used to this.
“Do you know Father MacGowen?”
I write.Aye.
I bite my lip, embarrassed when I realize I could’ve easily just nodded.
He nods. “How?”
This response takes me a bit longer.
He’s a friend of mine. Sometimes I need to leave my home, and he’s given me refuge at the church a few times. He’s very good to me and I like him very much.
“Why do you need to leave home?”
It never occurs to me to tell him anything but the truth. I’ve nothing to hide, and if I’m honest… I don’t want to go back. Perhaps this family can consider me an ally of sorts. Or perhaps that’s my overactive imagination again.
I go back to writing, giving him nothing but the bold, honest truth.
I am mistreated at home. My brother is an alcoholic and he beats me when he’s angry. My mother enables him. They are not kind people.
Since it takes me a moment to write, he doesn’t watch me write, but waits until I’m finished, then looks at the paper when I show him the pad. I don’t know what to expect from his reaction. Indifference? Curiosity? But it’s nothing like how he actually responds.
His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. His whole body stiffens, as he clenches his hands into fists.
“Tell me your brother’s name.”
Dougal Reilly.
Will he find him? Will he do something?
And why does the thought of him doing that give me a sliver of hope? I’m not a vindictive person…
Am I?
“He’s the one that gave you the bruise on your cheek?”
I completely forgot about that. I hesitate for a moment, then nod.
