He takes my hand.
“Let’s get inside before another bomb goes off. There was supposed to be one more, according to Masterson. It should have exploded by now.”
“Maybe it’s a dud?” Can that happen?
“Possibly, but we can’t risk it by lingering here. It’s possible the bastard rigged the final bomb to explode when the medics show up. It would kill any survivors and ensure Vic’s control. Besides,” his voice sounds cold and lifeless, the Sean I knew before all this started, “it’s what I would do if I had to eliminate an entire family at once.”
My stomach twists in response to hearing him admit it. He’s no longer the shy Sean that hides behind those dark lashes. That man is long gone, and in his wake is a being more monster than man.
It kills me to hear him talk like this. I need to get us out of this situation and get him away from here. There was a good reason Sean was on the opposite coast, a good reason his stays in New York were short: he was avoiding losing more of himself. Every minute he stays here, another piece of his soul chips away, lost forever. Nothing I can do will change that. Sean would trade his life to save his mother even though she doesn’t deserve it.
Part of me expects to walk into the solarium and see her standing in that blood-red robe without a scratch, amongst the rubble, still perfectly pressed and pristine, a teacup in her hand.
If she had anything to do with this, I’m going to strangle her myself.
Sean turns away and heads toward the solarium. We skulk around the property, staying in the gardens that are near the house, but not so close we’ll get toasted if another bomb goes off.
The early morning shadows stretch across the lawn, shading us. The dappled light makes us harder to see, but it also masks anyone else who might be out there. I keep scanning the trees, looking for the man who did this--looking for a sibling I never knew existed.
When I was younger, I would have been thrilled to find out I had a brother. I always wanted someone else to play with, but my parents never had another child. To find out that my dad wasn’t my father was rough, but finding out my real father was a murderer and my new brother is just as bad--well, it sucks.
I want a refund. I didn’t order this life.
This will change me. There’s no way to avoid it. I’ve taken enough classes to know what happens to a person when their past is ripped away and replaced with one they don’t want, filled with people they don’t want to know. Although I didn’t take SO YOUR REAL DAD IS REALLY A MURDERER 101, I know I'll fight an emotional battle I can’t win. No matter what, blood is blood. My father was a twisted killer, and my brother is just as bad.
We step into a clearing, and the sight of the once grand solarium jerks me from my thoughts. It’s cracked open like an egg with smoke billowing out the remains of the roof. Twisted metal hangs from the top of the dome, dangling pieces of broken glass still clinging desperately to the frame. Every few seconds the deathly silence breaks with sounds of fire crackling, glass breaking, metal clattering. In between those sounds is nothing but silence.
Sean doesn’t stop at the twisted threshold. Instead, he ducks through the bent, blackened metal and walks inside.
“Mother! Where are you?” He calls out, but there’s no answer.
My heart pounds in my ears as Sean releases my hand. He steps forward, crunching glass beneath his feet. He lifts burnt palm fronds and large pieces of shattered pots, digging a path to the other side of the room. The part of the solarium attached to the house still stands, glass roof intact. If he can get to it, he can see the spot where his mother habitually takes her breakfast each morning.
I keep thinking about what he said. She wasn’t supposed to be here.
Images flash through my mind of a younger Constance raising three little boys. I wonder if Sean played out here as a child. I wonder if, as he steps down and hears glass break beneath his feet, a childhood memory shatters with each step.
I glance around the room and try not to choke. Ashes are floating through the air, making it difficult to see. I walk carefully, looking around as I do so, hoping for any sign of his mother. Sean continues to clear a path toward the bistro table on the other side of the room. I linger behind him, scanning the debris for signs of life.
“Constance? Are you in here?” I call out, hoping for an answer, but no one replies.
Sean bends over and lifts a beam that was once part of the rafter. The muscles in his neck are corded tight as he tries to move it. He looks over at me and pulls down his mask.
“I can’t get through.”
“Sean, she’s not here.” I don’t want to say it, but there’s no indication that Constance was out here, other than the noises on the phone. “Maybe she was inside?”