Chapter 31 #2
“I was so easy to forget,” I whisper. “So easy to ignore. I was right there. I didn’t ask for much. I didn’t need much. Just for someone to see me.”
Naomi opens her mouth, probably to say sorry again, but I raise a hand.
“I don’t want another apology. I want you to understand how it was to grow up thinking love was something you had to earn. That if I just gave enough, did enough, stayed quiet enough, maybe someone would finally love me back.”
I take a shaky breath.
“I gave everything I had to you. Both of you. All the time. I listened when no one listened to me. I cleaned up after your messes, protected you, took the blame, and for what? You never even looked at me long enough to see what you were doing.”
They’re both crying now, slowly losing their composure in front of me. But I don’t stop. Don’t even consider that option.
“I made myself small so you could feel bigger. I made myself needed so I wouldn’t be left behind. And I was still left anyway.”
I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jacket, swallowing hard.
“You didn’t just forget my birthdays. You forgot me,” I say, the words burning their way out as I lift my gaze to them slowly. I meet their eyes with the kind of pain that’s been sitting in my chest for seventeen years. “And then you blamed me.”
And that’s it. The truth. Ugly and heavy and finally out in the open.
And they don’t deny it. Because they can’t.
***
I don’t say another word. Not to Sam. Not to Naomi. I turn and walk away—up the stairs, fast, before they can follow. Before I lose the nerve.
I see the door to my bedroom. Ignore it. And head for the door next to it—the door to my mother’s room. As always, her back is faced toward me and as always, the curtains are still drawn. The sunlight presses faintly through the fabric, but it can’t break through. It never does.
Her hair’s tied in a loose, messy knot at the base of her neck, though most of it has slipped out, clinging to her face and pillow.
There’s a tray on the dresser with untouched food—three days’ worth, maybe more.
The water glasses are lined up on her nightstand in a neat, untouched row.
Not one of them empty. Not one of them moved.
“Mum,” I say, carefully.
She doesn’t move.
I step closer, heart thudding stupidly in my chest. I shouldn’t expect anything. Not anymore.
But I still do.
Somehow, I always do, and I probably always will.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes,” I say, watching her as she remains perfectly still. She doesn’t even twitch. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, careful not to shift her, careful not to break whatever fragile bubble she’s built around herself. I don’t even think she knows I’m here.
I study her back, and the slope of her shoulders. The way her body curls slightly in on itself. She’s thinner than I remember, duller. Gone.
“Do you need anything?” I ask. “Water? A blanket? I could open the curtains—” My voice wavers pathetically, and I realize it sounds a lot like begging.
Not for a reply. Not even for kindness. Just for something human.
But she doesn’t say a word.
No “Okay”.
No “Be safe”.
No “I love you”.
Just cold, prickling, awful silence.
I wait another second, maybe two before I realize I’m doing more damage than good by being here, and I stand, slowly.
“I’ll see you,” I murmur, not knowing when or if that’ll ever be true. If she even counts as a “you” when she’s hardly a person anymore.
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t breathe any differently. Doesn’t even blink.
And I leave the room with the horrible, aching sense that I’ve just said goodbye to a ghost.
It makes me think for the first time that death may be a mercy.
***
The door to the bedroom clicks shut behind me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at it. Breathe. Swallow down the lump in my throat that hasn’t moved in days.
Then I cross the room and grab the tote bag I left behind. It’s still there, folded in the corner. I open it and start tossing clothes in—T-shirts, hoodies, jeans. There isn’t much, and I’m kind of glad of it.
A knock rattles through the house—loud enough to echo up to the second floor. I freeze for a second, then glance out the window.
Lilia, probably. Her white Mercedes is parked at the curb. But next to it—there’s another car.
Black. Sleek. Brand new Audi. Expensive. Very expensive.
My brow furrows.
I start folding faster, stuffing the last of my things into the bag. But before I can zip it up, I hear Sam yell from downstairs, voice wavering just slightly.
“Uh, Addie? Can you come down here for a second?”
I almost ignore her. In fact, I’m halfway to pretending I didn’t hear it. But after seeing that car parked outside, and the tone in her voice, I decide against it.
Curiosity wins.
I sling the tote over my shoulder and make my way downstairs, hesitantly.
And then I see them.
Sam and Naomi standing stiffly in the hallway, staring up at a handsome man who looks like he doesn’t quite belong in this world. Like someone dropped him into this crumbling house from a different one entirely.
He’s tall, maybe late twenties? His suit is dark, crisp, and doesn’t have a single wrinkle. His wool coat looks like it costs more than our rent, and his hair—a shocking shade of white and styled back.
There’s only one other person I’ve seen have hair this light before. And I doubt it’s just a coincidence. I don’t get time to dwell on this revelation though, because I’m completely dumbstruck when I see the person standing next to him.
“Kym?” I blurt, my voice catching in my throat.
Because there she is, standing beside him, somehow just as startling in her usual effortless way. Dark red trench coat that ends at her hips, and her black beret perched slightly off-centre. Wide-eyed.
“Kym?” I repeat, gawking at her dumbly. “What’s going on?”
She looks at me, seemingly just as confused. “Addie?” She blinks, looking between me, Naomi, Sam, and the man next to her. “What’s this about?” He smiles—first at her, then at the rest of us.
“I’m Sterling Carson,” he says smoothly. “Director General of the National Crime Agency.”
When no one answers for a few beats, he seems to come to the realisation that we’re all relying on him to say something. He folds his gloved hands in front of him, eyes scanning us calmly before they land on my face. They stay there for a few moments, but they move away as quickly as they came.
“I’ve been briefed on the situation.” His voice is completely steady, completely calm. “I’ll be taking a direct interest from this point forward.”
Carson?
As in Will Carson? As in Kym?
I glance between the two of them—Sterling and Kym—and suddenly it clicks that I had been right before. The white hair. The eyes.
It’s so clear he’s related to them, and the more I look between the two the more convinced I am.
And then I remember what Lilia told me weeks ago, and again last night, almost offhandedly. That the Carsons controlled the police force.
She wasn’t exaggerating.
Sterling looks scarily similar to Will. Same ghost-white hair.
Same deep, unreadable eyes that could mean everything or nothing at all.
Though Sterling is much more tanned than both of them, warmer.
And his face is softer. Gentler around the edges that somehow doesn’t take away from his intimidating, authoritative aura.
I consider the shape of his eyes. Will and Kym have those sharp, siren-like eyes that I always found unique but a little scary. Sterling’s aren’t like that. There’s something less predatory in them. Still piercing, but not as dangerous looking.
At least not on the surface.
Everything about him is refined in a way that doesn’t feel real. Posture straight, coat draped perfectly, not a hair out of place.
It intimidates me. More than I want to admit.
“I understand this situation has escalated far beyond what anyone expected,” he says. “But I want to be very clear, moving forward everything goes through me.”
I turn to Sam and Naomi, the words leaving my mouth before I think too hard about them. “Did you call him?”
They both shake their heads immediately; eyes still locked on Sterling and Kym but pale and visibly uncomfortable. At least or a few moments before they both recover from the initial shock.
Sterling barely glances at them before responding, his attention already shifting back to me. “They didn’t,” he says. “I was informed by my nephew. William Carson.”
Ah. Of course. Still, it’s a little surprising he bothered, and it makes me silently wonder what his edge is.
Sterling doesn’t pause long, just enough to see my reaction. “After reviewing the relevant information, I made the decision to step in.”
He gestures toward Kym, who stands awkwardly at his side. “This is my niece, Kym. She’s currently completing work experience with the NCA. I thought this would be an appropriate case for her to shadow.”
Kym gives a small, helpless shrug. “He didn’t specify,” she says, eyes darting toward me. “I thought this was going to be, I don’t know, an office thing. Something with paperwork.”
Sterling ignores her comment, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he turns back to my sisters and I with a calm, expectant expression. “May we come in?” he asks politely, but not in a way that seems optional.
I glance at Sam and Naomi. Sam stiffens, then gives a slight nod, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. Naomi hesitates longer, but eventually mirrors her, reluctantly.
I sigh and step back. “Alright,” I say, pulling the door open wider. Sterling doesn’t thank me. He just steps inside, and Kym follows a step behind, giving me an apologetic look that I somehow manage to return.
He pauses just past the doorway, taking in the living room and scanning every detail. From the worn furniture to the new furniture, to the takeout box on the hallway table.
“Is there somewhere we could sit?” he asks, turning toward me again. “I’d like to ask you all a few questions.”