Chapter Ten
Sophie…
I don’t give Ian a second’s rest when he unlocks my bedroom door.
“Michael said I could talk to my mother today?”
He sighs, taking out his phone. “Mr. MacTavish says ye are allowed to call her.” He rapidly texts someone, leaning against the wall, waiting for an answer.
“What… are we waiting for?” I ask, perplexed.
“I’m waiting for one of the guards to bring a phone to your mother.”
“Wh- what does that mean?” Terrified, my mind’s full of images of my mother chained down in the bunker behind the pool house. “Did they do something to my mom? Is she being held somewhere?”
“No,” he says tiredly. “Your mother is still in the cottage. She’s been denied electronic devices right now.”
I want to scream at him. I want to punch his stupid bodyguard face for his tone when he talks about my mother and that she’s been trapped in the cottage with nothing to do and the ten fucking years she’s given to this family and-
And the fact that she betrayed the MacTavishes to the same piece of shit who killed Dad and me. Jordan says.
You’re supposed to be on her side, you asshole!
I am. His tone is resigned. But you’re getting worked up and forgetting current events here, sis.
It’s not her fault!
Mom could have gone to Mala, he reminds me. Has Mala ever been anything but kind to you two?
She was scared, Jordan!
I’m pulled out of my conversation with my dead brother when Ian says my name. By his tone, I don’t think it’s the first time he’s said it.
“Are ye all right, Mrs. MacTavish?” Yeah, he’s looking at me all careful and cautious, like I’m about to detonate tears all over him.
“I’m fine.” I smooth my hair back, trying to act like a non-crazy person would. “Um… Did you get someone to give Mom a phone?”
“Aye,” he says, pushing a button. “Here ye are.” I try to take the phone into my room and his arm comes out to stop me. “I’m sorry, I need to hear your conversation.”
I flush, angry and a little humiliated. The call picks up immediately.
“Sophie?”
“Mom?” I immediately burst into tears, and so does she. “Are you okay? They’re not hurting you, are they?”
“No sweetie, of course not,” she says, trying to speak confidently. “What about you? Are you… you’re fine, right? Michael’s not…?”
“Michael’s not here,” I say dryly, grateful to be irritated with my husband instead of heartbroken for my mom. “I haven’t seen him since he brought me here two days ago. Ian, my jailer, says he finally gave me permission to speak to you.”
Ian’s brows draw together. Does he have the absolute gall to be hurt by that comment?
“Ian’s a good guy,” Mom says, “don’t be mean.”
“He’s keeping me locked up here and is currently standing in front of me, watching me talk to my mother, so no, I’m not feeling charitable right now.”
“Well, Angus is watching me, too,” she says, sounding so tired. “You can see why, though. I’m not to be trusted.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I say stubbornly.
Yes, it is, Jordan reminds me.
“It is,” she says. “To keep you safe, I would probably do it all over again, though maybe I would have taken my chances with Mala and the Chieftain first.”
“You did what you thought you had to, Mom. This is that dickwad Robert-”
“Don’t be crass,” she interrupts like a hundred times before when I didn’t sound like a perfect lady.
“That swine Robert Taylor’s fault,” I finish. “He’s to blame for all of this. And I hope the MacTavishes are extremely brutal in their retribution.”
Ian nods, like he approves.
“Anyway,” I turn my back to him. “Are you okay? Are you going crazy in the cottage?”
“No. I spent yesterday cleaning things up, that’s kept me pretty busy,” she says with forced cheerfulness.
There’s a painful twinge in my chest as I remember the mess they made of our house as they tore everything apart, looking for proof of our guilt. Mom is proud of the cottage, she takes such good care of it.
“Do you want one of my endless lists?” I try to sound cheerful, and not like I want to punch every MacTavish in the face right now. “I have a very comprehensive one for the dry goods in the pantry and the stacking order for the canned stuff including rotation order so nothing expires.”
“I think I’ll manage,” she laughs, and it sounds so good to hear, even though my feeble little joke doesn’t deserve more than a polite chuckle. “Why don’t you start a new one? Things that you need to do to be happy in your new life?”
It takes me a moment to realize that she means as a married person. As Michael’s wife.
“It’s hard to start a list when I don’t know what to put on it, but once Michael gets back, maybe we can talk,” I say with false optimism.
“That’s a good idea,” she says warmly. “Communication is so important when you get married, and…” Her enthusiasm dies off as we both accept how dire this situation is. Michael may not ever want to talk to me. Communication requires trust, and there’s none of that here.
I change the subject and we talk about little things, how the rosemary on her windowsill is flowering again and how terrible I thought the ending was for this season of Fallout. When Ian taps his watch meaningfully, I talk faster.
“Next time I come over, we should make that new recipe for lavender shortbread, didn’t that look amazing? And then-”
“Sweetheart,” she says heavily. “Angus is telling me it’s time to hang up.”
“Tell Angus to go to hell,” I snap, tears springing back into my eyes like they never left. “They don’t have any right to time our calls.” Ian’s eyes narrow and I wish I could punch him. Just wipe that stern, supercilious expression off his face.
“It’s fine,” Mom says with that determined sort of cheerfulness she gets when things are tough. “We’ll talk soon. Go get something to eat, I’ve swapped recipes with Davina before, she’s a wonderful cook. Or, maybe you can make something? You always used to love to stress-bake.”
“Yeah, that’s how I piled on ten pounds, freshman year,” I say dryly. “Though, it’s true that there’s nothing a decent pan of brownies can’t cure.”
“I love you, my girl. I’m proud of you,” she says with a fierce sort of belief only a mother can possess. “You’re going to succeed in this marriage. Despite our current situation, he’s a good man.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” I mumble.
“That sounds suspiciously like a pout,” she lectures. “Go bake something and cheer up.”
“Yes, ma’am!” My nose stings as I hold back another round of tears. “I love you, Mom. This is all going to work out.”
“Yes, it is,” she says warmly. “And I love you, too.”
And for the first time I can remember, we end a conversation where we’re lying to each other. Because based on Ian’s cold expression as I give him his phone, I don’t think this is going to work out at all.