Chapter 51 Sutton
SUTTON
Jean-Louis isn’t at the manor when I show up.
No one is in fact, which irritates the fuck out of me. Our family seems to only want to appear at the most inopportune times and not when I might actually need something.
I came to ask if he’d known—if he’d known Bellamy had been pushed, and if he knew she’d been the sacrifice.
If that was why he always suggested her death had merit. That she had honored it in that way by becoming just another facet of the organization.
He had to know. There’s no other explanation as to why he pushed so hard for me to become Incarnate. With a sacrifice already having happened, there was a gap in the control, and he couldn’t stand the disarray.
A gap meant vulnerability in the Dupont line. No wonder he was so eager for Beckett to fill my shoes should I fall short.
I’m not surprised to find Beckett sitting on the balcony when I return to my apartment.
He won’t stop bouncing his knee as I approach or twisting the baseball cap he’s wearing. I walk past him, putting my key in the knob, and head in.
Beckett scrambles after me, nearly tripping over the threshold as he sprints to get inside.
“Father’s not home,” I say as I make my way to the kitchen, pouring some diet soda from a can into a glass of ice. “In case you were curious.”
He scoffs. “Like I give a shit.”
“Oh? That’s a new development.” Settling on my sofa, I take a drink and place the glass on a coaster.
Beckett hovers in the archway between the foyer and living areas. He tugs on the drawstrings of his hoodie, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Quit being annoying and come sit. Distract me with the musings of your day,” I order.
Swallowing, he walks over and sits on the arm of the recliner next to the couch. As he does so, he pulls the cuffs of his sleeves down over his knuckles—but not before I notice the broken, dark red skin.
I sigh, leaning my head on the back of the couch. “What the hell, Becks? Have you been fucking fighting? How are you planning on applying for a Curator appeal in the fall if you’re getting into trouble like that still?”
He clears his throat. “What if I don’t apply?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe I want to take your advice and get out of Fury Hill. Get out from Father’s shadow.”
“Just because you’re here doesn’t mean you have to live by his rules, you know. He would get over it.”
His shoulders slump as he falls into the chair, reclining it.
I watch him curl into a ball, shaking his head.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve done too much for him at this point.
Even if, by some strange miracle, he took his last breath tonight and I didn’t have to worry about him anymore…
I’d still remember, right? The shame and guilt don’t go away if he does. I’m still here. Still me.”
Something about the way he says that makes me uneasy. I reach down, grabbing a stack of paper-clipped essays, and drop them at his feet, tossing a pen on top. “Well, while you’re here, why don’t you do something useful and grade some of those?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You trust me to do that?”
“Hey, you’ve got the same theater background as me. Either one of us could act circles around even the upper-level students.”
After a long moment, he shrugs, bending to scoop the papers up. Better he do something productive with his mind than keep letting those parasitic thoughts fester.
That way only lies disaster.
I watch him for a long time, trying to place exactly what it is about his movements, his avoiding eye contact, that bothers me, but I keep coming short.
My gaze falls to his broken knuckles again, and I pause, folding my hands in my lap.
He refuses to look up at me.
Tension threads through my stomach, knotting the organ. I swallow, my mouth arid, and force a deep breath. “Becks. What did you do?”