I believe Dad when he says he doesn’t have any information about Kingston, because there’s no way he would have let this go on for as long as he has.
He wouldn’t have watched Ralph rape his wife if he had answers.
He wouldn’t watch as Larry stood behind me and dipped his hands beneath my nightgown, dragging calloused fingers over my breasts.
If he knew anything, he would have broken by now. If not from his own pain, then from ours.
Mom has been catatonic since Ralph zipped up his pants and walked out with the promise to come back tonight when everyone went to sleep.
I don’t blame her because I think I’d be the same in her position.
My time is probably coming, but I try not to let myself think the worst.
“Come on, Weaver. Tell us where he is, and we won’t ruin your baby girl,” Pete spits, smearing my blood across my face.
Copper is a permanent fixture on my taste buds now, and I can barely remember a time when the scent of blood didn’t linger in the air.
“I don’t know anything!” Dad shouts. He’s missing teeth and a couple of fingers, the removal of which is the cause for the puddle of vomit beside me.
Knowing what happens down here and witnessing it are two very different things, especially when it’s your own flesh and blood being dismembered.
“You have to know something.”
“I don’t!” he insists.
I steel myself for another punch, my body locking down to brace myself.
But it doesn’t come.
“Everybody out!” Damon’s voice fills the cell, and I’m as relieved as I am terrified of his reappearance.
I keep my eyes pressed closed as they file out, the sound of boots on damp concrete fading the only confirmation that they’ve done as they were told.
Does he know that Ralph visited us overnight?
Does he know that Larry groped me?
Would he care if he did?
The steel door scrapes closed, and I finally force my eyes open. As badly as I would like to stick my head in the sand and never come up for air, I realize that’s not a luxury I have right now.
I’m met with ice-blue eyes staring down at me, Damon just a few feet away.
“What the fuck is this?” he spits out, holding the stick I held with hope for the future just a couple of days ago.
Tears roll down my cheeks. “I only found out after Ronan left. I wanted to wait to tell him in person,” I whisper.
“You’re fucking pregnant!” he roars.
I knew they’d be mad when they found out, but he seems furious. Like the idea that I’ll be the mother of his niece or nephew is the worst possible thing that could happen.
And it probably is to him.
Sound comes from behind him, but he’s standing too close for me to see either of my parents’ reactions.
In another world this would have been a happy moment. A mug that says “World’s Best Grandma” or a little sweater in a box with “Baby Lombardi” knitted into it.
It should have been smiles and happy tears, celebrations and planning.
