He took a noisy, sloshy bite of an apple, and I pressed my head against the window to get away from him. “Why, yes, your brothers are safe and well cared for. You’re very welcome.”
“Thanks,” I murmured. I should’ve been with them, after all that had happened—but I never could stay for long. I couldn’t stand it, the aftermath, with Michael’s crying and Freddie’s recounting the fight, play by play. Worse, though, was the way Sean would pretend he didn’t need to cry or relive what had happened. A nine-year-old shouldn’t have a look that hard. He looked most like Dad on nights like these.
I felt a soft brush against my cheek and looked up into Mycroft’s droopy eyes. They were crystal blue—much lighter than his brother’s—and were focused on the small drop of water on his forefinger. He rubbed his thumb over it, and I held my hands in my lap to keep from wiping at the cool trail the tear had made down my cheek.
“I take it you have no plans to take them back to that house.”
Our eyes met for the first time, and Mycroft’s widened a bit. “I see.”
I doubted he did. No one would believe the level of violence tripping through my thoughts just then. The crease in his brow relaxed as I focused on softening my expression.
“He will never again lay a finger on those boys,” I promised, and just saying the words dropped a pebble in the still pool of heat that lay dormant at my core. I squeezed a fist, digging nails into my palm to keep my composure.
Mycroft paused to study my face and then looked back down at his hand. “I think perhaps I should be afraid of what you just said, but I believe you.” He backed up a few steps. “And that’s enough for me. For now.”
He paused again at the doorway. “One more thing.”
“Do go away,” I said.
“Yes, do,” Lock said from the hallway.
Mycroft scowled a bit but covered his irritation with a flourish of his arm, directing his brother into the room. “I was just going to offer to come and get you, dearest of all my brothers.”
Lock sighed wearily and brought me a mug of tea. I thought for sure Mycroft would say his one last thing, but when I looked back toward him, the door was shut and he was gone. Lock sat on the corner of his bed, staring at me. I’d had just about enough scrutiny for one night. I sipped my tea and then set it aside.
“How’s your mother?” I asked, but he wouldn’t be so easily distracted.
“Where did you go?”
“Is she feeling better at all?”
Sherlock pursed his lips and crossed his arms. I turned to stare back out the window.
“Where is she?” I felt a pressure in my chest even referring to Sadie, and I had to clench my teeth to force it to pass. “What did you do about her?”
“I called the police anonymously and stood guard at the bandstand until they came for her, then acted the perfect shocked bystander when they asked what I’d seen.”
I made some kind of noise not even I could recognize, but when Sherlock stood and took a step toward me, I curled further into myself and strained to keep my eyes on what little I could see of my house from his window. “What ridiculous theories did they come up with this time?”
“Not a one. They were at their very best.”
“Really?”
Sherlock nodded. “Yes, in that they didn’t even open their mouths.”
He moved closer, and I thought he might sit across from me on the window seat, but instead he grabbed his violin and started to play. I didn’t know the song. The melody was simple and repetitive, but haunting. Like a lullaby, maybe, if it weren’t played so plaintively. Something that might, on any other night, have soothed us both. But that night, the pleading of his violin became the sound track of my plan. From the first note, it seemed, I knew exactly what I would do to take my father’s life. I even knew how I would get away with it. It was perfect. Seamless.
We sat silently after the final note of the song was played, Lock, with his violin still resting beneath his chin, and I, still leaning against the window, trying to see my house from his.
“You’re not going back,” he said, as if he’d suddenly decided and I was to abide his will.
I caught myself before I grunted out more than half a laugh. “I have to stop him.”
“We call the police.”
I shook my head.
He said, “They will believe us now. If nothing else, the boys are our evidence.”
“They are my brothers, not the boys, and certainly not your evidence.” I stared down at my fists and watched my knuckles turn white. “We’ll not parade their humiliations in front of uncaring strangers while you try to make your case. You don’t know the police like I do. They’ve seen it all before, on those boys. They’ve looked into their eyes, seen the marks on their faces and bruises on their bodies. And they walked away and left us with that . . .”
Lock started to reach for me, but his hand still held the bow.
“They won’t help. It’s left to me.”
He walked over and placed his bow across a small music stand in the corner. “And if you can’t?”