Inferno (Page 29)

‘You can’t manipulate me like that,’ I hissed. But he could and he was. I didn’t want him following me into that club and going head-to-head with my uncle and all his new allies. There would be blood, and it would be on my conscience.

I started walking again. ‘You were supposed to stay away from me.’

He followed me. ‘That was before.’

‘Before what.’

‘Before I knew the Black Hand were involved.’

My mind was swirling with possibilities. How could I get rid of Nic from this scenario? How could I convince him not to come to that club? He wasn’t going to give up.

‘Let’s make a deal, then,’ I said, swivelling. I masked my features and lifted my eyes to his. I made them as wide as I could and nudged at my bottom lip with my teeth.

He watched me, unblinking.

I drew in a breath and with all the sincerity I could muster I made my proposition. ‘I won’t go to Eden if you promise not to go to Eden.’

He looked past me, contemplating. He drummed his fingers against his jaw. ‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ I lied.

‘OK, then,’ he relented. ‘So do I.’

As I let myself in, a chair screeched in the kitchen and my mother rushed to meet me in the hallway. Her face was drawn tight.

My throat seized up. ‘Mom? What’s going on?’

She held up my pillow in greeting, the bloodied side turned towards me.

Crap.

‘Sophie?’ She padded towards me. ‘What’s happened?’

The cut on my palm burnt with the memory. The image of my mother crying by herself that night in the kitchen had been seared into my brain – the vision so like the version of my mother approaching me now, searching my face for clues. Guilt bubbled inside me. I blinked once, slowly, banishing the memories.

‘Oh, yeah.’ I took the pillow from her, held it by a corner and rotated it, forcing nonchalance. ‘I had a nosebleed a couple of nights ago.’ I flicked my gaze across her features, praying the lie would land. ‘The doctor said it would probably happen once or twice, since my nose is still healing. It’s not a big deal.’

Her eyebrows drew together, creasing her forehead. ‘Why didn’t you wake me when it happened?’

You weren’t asleep. I shrugged. ‘It was late. I didn’t see the point.’

‘The point?’ My mother shook her head. ‘You should have come to me, Sophie. You know you can always come to me.’

‘It was just a nosebleed. It had almost stopped by the time I woke up.’

‘Still,’ she said. ‘I’m your mother. That’s what I’m here for.’

I offered her a half smile in the dimness. ‘Please don’t worry about it.’

‘Sweetheart,’ she mirrored my smile, her head cocked lightly to one side, ‘it’s a mother’s job to worry.’

I had to crush an urgent need to hug her. There was something strange in the air, and it was making me feel like I might burst out crying at any moment. She was so small and tired, and yet even now, there was a constant ripple of strength in her. Strength for me. Strength I wanted her to keep for herself.

Get a grip, Soph.

‘I’m fine, Mom.’ There was a short silence. The pillow hung limply at my side. I debated doing an elaborate twirl, and decided that might be overkill. Instead, I lightened my voice. ‘Everything is fine … except of course for this pillow, which, unfortunately, is not. I think it’s time we put it out to pasture.’

She stared at the pillow, mock-frowning. ‘Poor little guy.’

I held it up for examination. ‘I’ll miss him.’

‘We’ll get you a better one,’ she stage-whispered, pretending to block her mouth with her hand. ‘Bigger and puffier.’

I drew my eyes wide. ‘Mother,’ I chastised. ‘Have some respect. He can hear you.’

We laughed, and for a moment it felt real. She followed me into the kitchen, where I threw the pillow in the trash. ‘Sayonara,’ I declared, stuffing it into the can. I turned back to my mother. ‘In the interest of honesty, I feel I should tell you I’ll be stealing a pillow from your room in the next three minutes or so.’

She smiled even brighter that time. ‘What’s mine is yours.’

‘In that case, I might also commandeer that tear-drop necklace with the emerald stone.’

‘Except my jewellery, clothes, make-up and everything else I consider valuable,’ she added with a wink. ‘You may, however, help yourself to a small handful of my potpourri.’

‘Wow.’ I blew out an exhale. ‘You generous lady.’

She picked up a mug from the table. The moment felt so wonderfully normal. I wished I could have wrapped myself inside it and forced everything else from my mind, but like all good things, it faded too quickly. I turned to go, and she gripped my arm, squeezing it just above the elbow. She eyed me over the rim of her mug, peppermint on her breath as she said softly, ‘You know you don’t have to pretend, sweetheart. Not with me.’

We watched each other in silence, the bloodied pillow just a couple of feet away, my father’s absence filling up the space between us.

‘Neither do you,’ I said quietly.

Her gaze turned quizzical but she kept the mug high. ‘I’m not pretending.’

‘OK,’ I conceded. ‘If you say so.’

I left her nursing her tea, staring at something far beyond the kitchen window. Another life, maybe. One before my father, before me, when she was a budding designer in a city far away, with high hopes and big dreams. Not this small town, this stifled life, these blood-red memories pressing down on us.