Chapter 75

The neighbors across the street from my parents had lived there less than a year—a job opening at the mill had brought them to Cedar Harbor. Emily and Jake were their names. They were nice enough, quiet, and to themselves. They had a three-year-old boy named Eli with sunshine hair, bright blue eyes, and a laugh so loud it could be heard from across the street.

I’d seen him dozens of times but this time? This time was different as I stared out the living room window. I watched him as he shrieked and ran through piles of leaves, throwing them and giggling.

Would our son have liked leaves? Would we have spent fall afternoons raking up piles of leaves together only for our son to destroy each one? Killian would’ve helped him—made a game of it. Would I have buried him in them? Pretend I couldn’t find him in a game of hide-and-seek?

He would’ve been three this year.

That could’ve been us.

The thoughts were foreign—ones I never let myself entertain. They were full of painful what-ifs. But it was as if my mind was broken. There was no compartmentalizing it. No, putting it away neatly so my heart didn’t hurt. I was stuck in it—treading water so to speak.

I couldn’t begin to define what I was feeling. Grief didn’t seem to be a big enough word.

How long I stood there staring was up for debate. A few minutes? A few hours? Who knew? I just couldn’t tear my eyes away from them.

Envy? Was this envy?

I wanted that.

I wanted my son back.

I wanted my family whole.

As my father’s angry voice came into the living room, I brushed away stray tears from my cheeks but didn’t face him and my mother.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded angrily. I merely shrugged. How unladylike of me. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Genevieve!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said quietly.

“The Sheriff reinstated Killian Byrne into the department,” Dad snapped. I frowned. Why did he always refer to him by his full name? How many Killians were wandering Cedar Harbor?

“Good for him,” I whispered. I meant that. Killian had always been very good at his job, even if being a police officer wasn’t exciting in our town. And he’d enjoyed it, which was important.

“It’s unacceptable! That’s what it is!” he raged. I drew in a deep breath, sighing in frustration. “What is George thinking? That man doesn’t belong anywhere near a badge and gun. The people can’t trust him.”

“Yes, they can.”

“No, they can’t. After what he did to you—”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” I interrupted.

“Genevieve—”

“He never hurt me,” I continued over him. As my father opened his mouth to say more, I added, “Not unless I wanted him to.”

Oh, well… there was that.

I glanced at my father. My words hadn’t quite registered, so I gave the storm time. Because once he figured it out, he’d be upset. But I didn’t care. I was too numb.

“What do you mean by unless you wanted him to?” my father asked.

“I enjoyed it. I wanted him to choke me. I asked him to do it.” There had to be something wrong with me that I was telling him this.

I just couldn’t bring myself to care.

I could hear him yelling, but I ignored him. All I could think of was a little boy who could’ve had wild curls like me and big blue eyes like his dad. A happy, sweet little boy who never would’ve been yelled at. Who never would’ve been treated the way I was because he never deserved it.

I never deserved it

He would’ve been unconditionally loved and protected.

Like I should’ve been.

Like I’d never been.

I stared at my father, watching the facade I’d made for him over decades fracture and break away. I stared at an ugly man with lies and anger in his heart. A mean man who didn’t know what real love was.

How had I been so stupid to think he loved me?

He never had. He never would.

So what was I clinging to so tightly?