Epilogue

epilogue

AIDAN

Thirteen years later.

“Your father killed your mother.”

It’s the whisper of an almost forgotten memory. I wonder if it was even real—if she ever really said those words. I have only the vaguest memory of my Aunt Eliza. I was young, almost six at the time. I remember she was mean—to both me and the dog—but then one day she was gone, and Baxter and I were going to live with Uncle Martin and nobody ever told me why.

Baxter died two years ago. He lived a long happy life, but he was already three when I got him, and fourteen is ancient for a golden retriever. I cried for two weeks over that dog, though I would never admit this to a living soul.

I’d wanted to live with my uncle to begin with, but the system doesn’t care what a kid wants. They think they know best. But if I’d gotten what I’d wanted without the detour to my aunt’s house, I never would have had that dog.

That whisper in my mind lives with me. It haunts me. It goes to sleep with me. It wakes with me, and I wonder if it’s true. Even though I have so few memories now, I loved my dad. But what if he killed her? How could I love him if he killed her?

I wonder if I inherited something dark and twisted that will make me do the same some day. All the men in my family are criminals. And although I haven’t been formally inducted into the family business yet, I’ve done my share of bad things already.

I got my trust fund early—six months ago—so I could live on my own. I’m supposed to take over the business when I turn twenty-five. That’s still six years away. I feel like I’m in limbo, just waiting for my life to begin. And I wonder if this bit of early financial freedom isn’t really isolation and a trap. Maybe Uncle Martin isn’t ready to hand over the reigns of power just yet. Maybe he hopes I’ll fuck up, land in prison, and then he can keep the whole thing running. I can’t inherit anything from a jail cell.

I’ve already had some close calls with the law—problems that just mysteriously disappeared as though someone watches over me. I glance at the dresser to the framed pen and ink drawing, signed with a mysterious Q.

My guardian angel. I would have forgotten what she looked like—and probably that she’d even existed by now without the drawing. I got it for Christmas that same year from… Santa Claus. I mean, I know it wasn’t actually a jolly magic old guy who flies through the sky. But I’ve turned it all over in my head a thousand times now and still can’t make sense of it.

My uncle took me to see Santa at a local department store soon after I went to live with him, and I saw the angel who protected me the night my dad was killed. I thought of her as an angel. Somehow my little kid brain re-imagined her as some kind of magical being who was watching over me and protecting me from the monster with the gun that night.

The day I went to go live with my uncle, I remember getting on the bus after my aunt threw a vase at me. It hit the wall instead. I sat there praying as the bus pulled away to be able to get away from her. I asked the angel in my head.

And then, to my complete shock, I never had to see my aunt again. When I saw the angel at the store, I tried to talk to her, but she moved too fast. And then Santa was back, so I told him.

On Christmas Eve, I woke to sounds downstairs. I don’t think I was really fully asleep because I was trying to stay awake to catch Santa in the act—to find out if he was really real. He knew my name, so that felt like proof, but I wanted more.

When I heard the noise downstairs, I got up to go check. But by the time I got to the living room, there was no one there. I did see a new gift under the tree that wasn’t there before. It was the only one of all of them wrapped in a different color of paper that actually said “From Santa” on the label.

I raced back up to my room to look out the one window that might give me a view of reindeer flying across the sky, but the sky was empty except for the bright glowing moon. Then I looked down to see a pair of car headlights disappearing around a curve.

I went back and brought the gift up to my room. Whatever it was, I wanted it to be my secret. Inside the box was the building kit with magnetic dinosaurs that I asked Santa for, which felt like full and complete proof of his existence—at least to a six year old. And then, underneath that, was the drawing of the angel. I remember thinking maybe Q was the elf at the workshop who drew her.

I kept the drawing hidden for years. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t want to explain where I’d gotten it or who it was. It was my guardian angel, and I somehow thought the magic wouldn’t work if anyone else knew about her. Maybe she’d stop watching over me if I told someone about her or showed them her picture. So I kept everything hidden until I moved into this house.

I know now that she wasn’t really an angel. And there’s another darker truth about all this and how it came to be that I can’t let myself acknowledge just yet. I wonder if it’s silly to have this drawing sitting out in my bedroom like this. Have I finally outgrown her and the comfort her image provided all those years?

The rest of my family prayed the rosary over an image of the virgin Mary. I did all my praying to the angel, and sometimes, even though I know it’s stupid, I still do. I don’t know how all the bits of luck happened throughout the years, all the things that protected me from danger or kept me out of trouble, but I know it wasn’t magic.

Before I can decide if it’s silly to keep the drawing sitting out in the open like this, there’s a knock on my front door.

“Yeah?” I say warily when I open it. I squint against the sunlight. It’s my first time seeing it today.

The man standing on my front porch is tall and muscular, dressed in all black. He has killer’s eyes. I know because I’ve seen eyes like this plenty of times. I have eyes like this. The words out of his mouth confirm my suspicion.

“Hello, Aidan, my name is Brian Sloan. I’m the man who killed your father.”

I immediately go into fight or flight. Has he been stalking me? Why is this man here on my doorstep right now?

My immediate thought is that my uncle wants me gone. I pull my Sig from the back of my waistband and point it at him.

But then I freeze as I hear another gun’s slide rack. And then a voice I shouldn’t remember, but I do.

“I would be very careful about what I did in the next few minutes. We’re here to make you an offer, and I don’t want to be a giant cliché, but it’s one you can’t refuse.”

I’m about to try to turn to look at her, to see if it’s really her. But then the motherfucker who killed my father speaks again.

“You should probably put your weapon down. My girl is well trained, and, well she does have a gun six inches from the back of your head. Haven’t you ever heard of locks?”

I’m about to answer when she answers for me. “You’d be so proud. He’s got locks, a security code… but nothing I couldn’t break through. He’s even got a couple of guards on the property. Or had. We should find out who to send flowers and condolences to.”

I can’t believe these two are just bantering right now like a couple of psychos. She killed my security team like it was nothing, without an ounce of remorse.

I slowly put my gun down, keeping an eye on the man who calls himself Brian. “Coming to kill me before I can kill you, you motherfucker? Don’t think I haven’t been looking.”

And I have been, but there isn’t much to go on. And this whole time I had a clue right under my nose, a drawing of one of the killers. I feel so fucking stupid right now.

“Let’s go inside and sit down for a chat,” he says, like we’re a couple of old friends about to catch up over coffee and pie.

When we get inside, I turn around and finally get a look at her. She’s barely aged since the time of the drawing. And it was definitely her. My angel isn’t a guardian angel, she’s an angel of death.

I fight to keep the tears of betrayal out of my eyes. I am not going to cry like a fucking child right now.

“It’s not her fault,” Brian says. I zone out and miss half of what he’s saying because the rage is starting to cloud my vision, starting to make my heart race. I catch something about her wanting to save me that night… “So if you want to hate someone, I’m your guy,” he finishes.

I glare at him, not sure I can just switch gears and hate the symbol of all my childhood hopes, the person I sent all my prayers to, convincing myself she was a higher being who could answer them, and believing it that much more every time it seemed she had.

“Tell me, Aidan… how would you like to learn to be a real killer?”

I pause for a moment, weighing the options and remembering how my Uncle Martin always says to keep your enemies close.

“And you think you’re going to train me?”

Seriously, what’s with the pseudo-father routine? He killed my father. He doesn’t get to swoop in and take up the role this late in the game.

“I trained her,” he says.

I turn my attention back to the angel of death who does a slow turn, showcasing an arsenal of weapons attached to her body in various holsters.

“Okay,” I say.

Brian seems pleased at my easy acceptance. “Good answer, kid. You’re going to be glorious.”

And then, the bomb drops and explodes, and the silent truth that had been clawing to get out of my psyche finally becomes loud enough for me to hear. It’s the way he said ‘kid’. Somehow out of a million almost forgotten memories, I hear that store Santa saying kid in this man’s voice, and the obvious truth reveals itself.

I guess once I’d gotten older and realized she wasn’t magic, I’d thought maybe the store Santa had told her about me calling her an angel, and she’d somehow gotten the drawing to me. He did know my name after all. I reasoned maybe the guy playing Santa knew my family.

But it was my father’s killer the entire time.

I don’t know how long this fucker has kept tabs on me or why, but I’m going to find out.