Chapter 29 Fawn #2
I stop close enough that I have to crane my neck to hold his stern gaze, trying to hide the way my heart feels as though it is bleeding through my skin. “Max…”
His jaw muscles punch outwards, storming grey eyes assessing me.
“I know the buildings,” he states as if answering the question of why he is here.
“I approved the plans for them.” Then he grabs the back of my head and pulls me to his chest and— I wrap my arms around his thick waist. Thicker than Clay’s.
I sigh into his shirt, suddenly feeling too much, too scared, too vulnerable, as though his strength is breaking the dam on my own—
Then it’s over.
“That’s enough.” He pushes me out in front of him. “You’re a Butcher. Keep it together. I know you can.” He looks at me. Serious. “You walked nearly ten kilometres through a burning forest for my little brother. You’re not soft. Not fragile. Break down once this is over, got it?”
I nod slowly, ignoring the twitch in my neck muscles wanting to frantically shake my head in a desperate no. I stifle the flow of tears in my throat, bury my need to sob. I won’t let myself. Not yet.
Snap out of it, Fawn.
For them.
I swallow. “I got it.”
So I walk to the door that Max faces, instinctively knowing my babies are inside—longing for Clay, my heart aching—and knock on the door, ready with shaky hands to be the woman my sons deserve, the right mother for the heirs of the Cosa Nostra.
“Eleanor?” There is silence. Why are my babies so quiet? “What do you want from us, Eleanor?” I face the door, my lower lip wobbling as I say, “Have you hurt my babies?”
More silence.
Painful silence.
“You knew…” I press my forehead to the door, tasting tears now as I try to breathe shallow, measured, so she doesn’t hear the tremble in my voice. “Didn’t you?”
Time stretches.
I hiccup a sob, unable to stop.
Then, I hear a scoff, far away, but distinct. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
I lift my head. Never so thankful to hear her speak, to know she is coherent. That’s good. Does she like it when I’m sad? She likes it when I hurt? Cry? I don’t hide the humiliation, enhancing it, even. “You know they raped me that night.”
“I know nothing, stupid girl.”
I whimper—it’s both real and exaggerated. “You said, ‘One minute you’re pregnant with one of my boys’ babies.’ How did you know that? I was such a slut, right? It could have been anyone’s. How did you know it was one of your boys?’”
Her horrid voice comes through the door, closer this time, so close I can imagine her body right there, only the wood separating us. “You were always making moon eyes at my poor Benji.”
That might have hurt once. Not anymore, because Clay Butcher hangs my moon and stars now.
“Yes, Benji.” I press my hand to the wood, wishing I was an X-Man with the power to burn her through the grain. “So why did you say, ‘one of my boys’ babies? One of?”
“You didn't remember what happened.” Her voice is flat and uncaring, but the message strikes me like a punch to the head—she knew everything.
“Did they tell you?” I ask, “Like, how did you know?”
“I saw the tape.”
Her admission makes me want to vomit, stomach churning at the idea she has seen what they did to me. I feel lightheaded and confused. “What? You watched them rape me and didn't... You didn't even care?”
Don’t lose it, Fawn.
“Oh, Fawn. What is the common denominator here? No one cared about you. Not your mother. Not the police officer. Not your father. I, at least, tried.”
It’s hard to hear my insecurities in my ears. When they rear up, I usually allow them to bounce in my mind but rarely have to hear them spouted with such cold conviction. I blink a tear away. “Did you try?”
“I did, but you kept taking from me.”
“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What did I take? Huh? Tell me. Tell me what I took from you, Eleanor?”
“Jake!” she cries.
His name hits me dead in the chest. What? I didn’t expect that. I thought she would say Benji, the golden boy, the boy everyone wanted to be around.
But Jake?
I work the name in my mouth a few times before pressing, “Jake?”
“He became obsessed with you,” she hisses. “Wouldn’t listen to me. He used to love me, but then you—you took it all. You turned him against me.”
I almost laugh. The absurdity of it, the idea that I can manipulate anyone. Especially Jake. He was a bully. He was always in control. “You’re insane.”
“I know Clay Butcher killed my boys!” she bites out, and I gasp. “He mocked me in front of everyone at the dress shop. Don’t think I don’t know what he did.”
Sir doesn’t mock.
It’s beneath him.
He warns.
I shake my forehead against the door. “Why would he risk his business, his life, for a silly little girl like me?”
Her breathing is rough and uneven, like she’s running. I imagine her pacing the room. She is starting to lose control—I can hear it. “I crashed my car into yours,” she says, proud and broken at once. “I wanted to end it. For all of us. But you survived, didn’t you? You and these little monsters.”
My heart skips so many beats it feels like it might never be steady again. I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “Don’t call them that.”
Be brave, Fawn.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to close out the world for a moment.
A second. I want to be in Clay’s arms, to know he is safe and near.
I curl my hands into fists against the door, cruel tears dripping into my mouth, my mind begging, please, please, please, don’t hurt my babies. God, please don’t let her hurt them.
Then I spit out, “They’re Jake’s,” before I can stop myself. My eyes flick open, dancing across the white door as the two words rush from me in a desperate cadence.
Quiet, then a hushed, “You’re a liar.”
“I’m not lying!”
“You're naive and stupid. You were always stupid. Thinking ditsy things. Talking about clairvoyance and auras. You think I’m going to believe that?”
“Maybe I am stupid, but I’ll tell you something, I'll never be locked in a hospital room with nowhere to go. Either jail or dead. That's your choice now, Eleanor. Tell me who is the stupid one today? Look outside. Go on.”
I listen to footsteps, then the sound of the blinds opening. Her voice is further away as she says, “I’ll kill them, then myself. I’m alone anyway.”
God, no! I slap my hand to my mouth, covering a fitful sound that claws up my throat.
When I force my fingers away from my face, my breath shakes with pathetic dread as I try to convince her.
“Kill Jake’s babies? If you come out, hand over my babies, I promise I'll forget this whole thing.
I won't press charges, Eleanor. I will support you.”
“The police will not let me go.”
She is right. “You might get a suspended sentence,” I say, hopeful.
“If you haven’t hurt them. You might get to walk away from this.
A mental breakdown. I lived with you. I can attest to your mental health issues.
I will support your claim. You’ll get a tiny sentence.
Think this through. I’ll bring the boys to visit you, I promise. ”
A huff, then, “I don't believe you.”
“Look at Ash,” I beg, my cheek stamping the door, heavy breath fogging it. “Don’t you think he looks like Jake? The hair? Those cheeks? He looks nothing like Clay.”
He looks like me…
My heart twists.
“And the other?" she spits, voice dripping with hatred.
"Luca?” I smile. My sweet, headstrong Luca. “Looks like my dad. All dark hair. Italian." Truth is, he’s Clay through and through but this lie might work. My heart hammers against my ribs. "They're half me, half Jake. Please, Eleanor. You don’t want to lose your boys again. You made a mistake.”
She is quiet.
Too quiet.
“You tried to love an unlovable girl. I get it,” I carry on, losing my resolve, getting desperate, because I haven’t heard any sign of my babies.
“You tried, and I destroyed your life. Stole your boys.
I broke you. I did this. They'll understand.
Like you said, I'm the common denominator.
I'm the problem. Not you. It's not your—"
BANG!
A gunshot blasts in my ears like thunder splitting the sky in two. I hear glass explode.
"Eleanor?" I shout.
"Going in," Max booms, pushing me behind him. He shoulders the door until the wood at the handle splinters and cracks. The door bursts open.
I see Eleanor stagger, then tumble towards him, blood blooming through the centre of her chest. A perfect shot to her heart. He seizes her by the shoulders and hurls her aside like garbage, her limbs flopping lifelessly.
He makes way for me. I charge into the room. My pulse feels like it’s everywhere, in my ears, in my temples, in my neck. The hospital staff swarm in behind me.
I stop. My boys—my babies—lie motionless in the plastic hospital cots. Asleep? Drugged? Something tells me they are drugged. Eleanor always had Valium, Oxy, and others I know about, but can’t name. So, I lunge for my babies, but the nurses surround them in quick succession. They get to work.
I let them.
My legs tremble as I watch it all play out, helpless to do anything. Helpless and alone. Alone in this moment, in this grief. I stagger backwards until glass crunches beneath my shoes, jagged shards biting through the soles.
That’s when it happens.
The hairs on my neck rise.
Someone is watching me.
My head snaps towards the shattered window.
Through the sharp, perfectly centred hole, across the void between buildings, stands a man—a six-foot-five predator in a perfectly styled suit.
Even in shadows, I know those shoulders, that undeniable presence, that stance.
Only the most lethal shot in the Cosa Nostra. The Devil’s prototype. My everything.
Clay Butcher.
He didn’t abandon me.
He never left.