was staunchly Catholic--didn’t believe in terminating the pregnancy.”
“And your sister … she’s alive?”
“Yes. I had to have her committed a few years back.”
“You committed her? I mean …. Russ was always under the impression your mom was …. Well, you said before that she was an addict. That she committed suicide.”
Brows furrowed, he nods. “My mother spiraled into depression for years, following the attack. One afternoon, Frannie came inside from playing and found my mother hanging from a rope by her neck.”
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been horrible for your sister.”
“Fucked her up, I guess. She hasn’t been right since. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t do anything but stare out a barred window all day long.”
Words sit trapped inside my throat, my heart aching for all he’s been through. Because of me. I want to tell him sorry, but what the hell good is that? Sorry doesn’t make up for an entire life destroyed. Three lives, really. If Russ hadn’t fled with me, Thierry might’ve followed his dream. His mother would’ve been spared. Frannie wouldn’t be here, of course, but then what kind of life is staring out a barred window all day?
“I don’t know what to say. I feel like … so many things might’ve been different, if he’d--”
“Stayed?” With a snort, he shakes his head. “They would’ve come for us, eventually. My father was a gambler. Too many debts.”
“So, is this how you got tangled up with the cartel?”
He seems contemplative for a moment, as he rests his elbow over his hiked knee. Perhaps this is too much for him to divulge at once, and I certainly won’t pry, if he decides to ignore the question. “You sure you want to hear this?” he asks.
Can it get any worse than what he already shared? “Whatever you’re willing to tell. Yes.”
“Six months later, I went after one of the men. Wasn’t calculated. Wasn’t even well thought out, or executed. I tortured him. For as long as I could. And when I was satisfied with his suffering, I killed him, not knowing the gang he ran with. The Matamoros Diablos were associated with the cartel. Julio was impressed to find an eighteen-year-old kid had not only killed, but disposed of the body afterward.”
Killed. Not in self-defense, either. He sought out the man, tortured, and murdered him. Trying to process that thought sends my brain into one big moral dilemma. While I do somewhat believe in the eye for an eye philosophy, particularly in the kind of case where his mother’s concerned, it’s a little unnerving sitting next to a man who killed another man in cold blood. And disposed of him. What does that even mean? I’m too chicken to ask.
At the same time, I can relate to those feelings, which is probably the worst part of it. I’ve visualized going after my father and Maw Maw’s murderers so many times throughout the years, and what I wouldn’t give to shove a blade right through the killer’s heart. But I’d be chasing nothing but ghosts. Memories that I’m not even certain are one-hundred percent real. Like the story somehow twisted and morphed into something else over the years, and I don’t remember the original version of it anymore.
Russ was right to deter me away.
Perhaps he would’ve given the same advice to his son.
Quiet for a moment, I contemplate the consequences of what I’m desperate to confess to him right now. Something I haven’t admitted to, or spoken of, since the day Russ sat me down to lay down the rules. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t say anything. It’s been the motto of my whole damn life. The fact that my hands are trembling is telling of just how little I’ve come to trust people, in general.
“My name …” Fidgeting, I stare down at my hands, daring myself to tell him. “My name is Céleste. Céleste … Pierce.” My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly breathe. “My father … was …”
“Doc Pierce. Didn’t know he had a daughter.”
An overwhelming sense of relief washes over me, having confessed something that’s become so forbidden to say aloud, I can hardly believe I did just now. “He kept me away from the public. Most of my life.”
“Why?”
Shaking my head, I shrug. “He wanted to protect me.”
“So, that night … you were there?”
“Yes. But I can’t remember it. There’s a blackness that I can’t see past. A void that my brain somehow skips over, like it doesn’t want to go there.”
“Probably best you don’t remember, after