“Do you know what you want?” Sparrow leaned forward, her face almost touching mine, her green eyes dark and intense.

“Yes,” I hissed slowly, holding her gaze. “I want you both to fuck off.”

“No, Sam. You think you want revenge. But what you want…” she trailed off, shaking her head “…what you really want is completely different.”

“Even if I wanted the things you think I want, getting them would ruin everything. I’m a monster,” I growled, feeling the invisible chain to my resolve tightening, ready to snap, unleashing all my pent-up anger.

Sparrow palmed my cheek, flashing me a sad smile. “If a monster can be made, it can be unmade, too. Good night, my darling boy.” She kissed my nose and slid out of the car.

Troy followed her.

For a few seconds, it was just me and the car and the silence, punctuated by the wails of an ambulance a good few yards away.

Then I started laughing.

A good, deep laugh.

One that rumbled through my whole body.

“I don’t want Aisling, you fools.” I kicked my car into drive. “But I will have her.”

It was time to take what Aisling had offered me so freely.

First, I would have what I’d deprived myself of for so long. An American Princess.

Then I would ruin her father.

It would piss him off more anyway.

“He is gone!” Mother burst through my bedroom door, looking like a demon right out of a horror flick—a second before it crawled its way out of a pond. “His things are gone. Suits. Clothes. Laptops. Briefcase. The only thing he left is his wedding band, the bastard!”

I sat upright in my bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The world blurred into focus slowly. It was a Thursday. A few days after the charity ball. Da hadn’t been back in the house since. He stayed with Cillian and Persephone until things cooled down. Or so we thought until three seconds ago.

“Mother, I—”

“I didn’t do it!” she howled, pounding a fist against her chest. “You believe me, don’t you? It wasn’t me. I swear. Not the poisoning. Not the cufflinks. I mean, heavens, Aisling, we both know how obsessed he is with those cufflinks. I would never!”

“I believe you,” I said and meant it. I got out of the bed, still dizzy, and walked over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and rubbing slowly. “But I’m going to need some time to get to the bottom of all this. Okay?”

“You must help me, Aisling. You must.” She dropped down to her knees, hugging my midsection. I stared at her in disbelief mixed with annoyance. I’d never seen her so desperate in my life. I was growing more and more suspicious, especially after the cufflinks, that whoever was doing this wanted to hurt my father specifically, not my parents as a unit. But in their quest to ruin my father’s life, they also terrorized my mother, who was beyond frail and brittle and already had her own demons to battle.

Just a few weeks ago, I found fresh cuts above her wrists.

“Get up, Mother.” I patted her head awkwardly, glancing around to ensure we didn’t have an audience. She folded into two, doubling down by collapsing on the floor.

“I can’t,” she wailed. “Oh, Aisling, this is such a nightmare. I need something for my nerves.” She clutched my bare toes, and I felt her tears wetting them. My stomach turned and twisted. I wanted to run away.

“I’m not prescribing you anything, Mother. I’m not a psychiatrist. You need to see a professional who will assess you. Besides, you should adopt some coping mechanisms. Bad things happen to everyone. Life is about rising to the occasion, any occasion. Think of life as a garden. You don’t choose where to be planted, but you can only choose whether to bloom or wither.”

“Oh but, Ash, it is hard to bloom in the storm. All I need is a little pick-me-up. I even have a list of things that might help. It’s right here.” She messed with the pocket of her nightgown, producing a wrinkled paper and handing it to me.

I scanned the list, my blood turning cold.

“That’s a lot of pills. Some of them are strong. Zoloft. Prozac … you cannot mix them together, and you definitely can’t consume alcohol if you take any of them.”

Then something had occurred to me. Something that made me want to throw up. It was perfectly possible she had already taken them. Because all those things were prescribed to so many of her bored, housewife friends, and they all loved to exchange pills like it was some sort of a hobby. If she asked for them, it might be because she wanted more of them.

“You haven’t taken any, have you?”

She sniffed but didn’t say anything. I stepped back, shaking her off of my feet.

“For goodness’ sake, Mother!”

“Just get me the medicines and get to the bottom of this.” Jane threw herself over the carpet pathetically, very intentionally wiping her snot over it.

For one brief moment I forgave myself.

Forgave myself for being so weak when it came to Sam Brennan, for going to the schools my parents chose for me, and for never quite standing up for myself. Not with my friends, not with my brothers, and not with my family.

It was obvious my role model at home wasn’t exactly Marie Curie. Secretly, I wondered what I would have been like if I were raised by anyone else. By someone strong. A woman like Sparrow, who was terrifyingly direct and always made her opinion known publicly about every matter.

I redirected my thoughts quickly when I felt anger flaring in my chest. There was no time for that.

Hurrying toward the closet, I jammed my feet into the scrubs I didn’t need, for a job that was a lie to please my parents.

For the first time, I wondered what it would feel like to live in my own place. An apartment where I could get precious sleeping time between shifts at work without drawing my mother baths and listening to her complain about my father. Where she wouldn’t threaten to cut herself to get back at me for not giving her enough attention.

“I need to get to work. Please get yourself in the shower and brush your hair. Maybe go on a walk or see friends. You need to start taking care of yourself, Mother. I won’t live here forever.” I began buttoning my pea coat over my scrubs.

“No one has asked you to!” She shot me a hostile look from the floor, pouting. “And go, why don’t you. Go when I need you. Just don’t come crying at my grave when you lose me.”

This old tune again.

Do this and this and that or else I will take my own life.

She needs help, mon cheri, and maybe you are not the place she should get it from.

“I’m calling your psychiatrist as soon as I get to work,” I announced to her. She never agreed to see him. Said he never prescribed her the drugs she wanted.

“You can be mean, you know?” She stared at my ceiling numbly, zoning out. “Just like your father.”

“I’m not mean.” I sighed, grabbing my backpack. “But I am tired.”

She said something else, but I didn’t hear her. I walked away before she could convince me to stay. To tend to her. To give myself up for her.

On my way to the clinic, I called one of our trusted housekeepers and asked her to keep an eye on Mother, knowing I was paying lip service for my conscience.