“Are you incapable of sitting quietly, Moira?” His face is still hidden behind the newspaper, but I imagine he would glare at me with mild irritation.
“No.” I scowl at him, and then add, “Yes.”
“I suggest you immerse yourself in some hobbies such as reading.” Another page is turned, and his hand reaches out to grab his coffee. “I believe you mentioned Scott Harrison taught you to read. Though I wonder how you managed to learn since you just admitted to being incapable of sitting still for even a short period of time.”
“It’s been twenty minutes!” I lean back against the chair, crossing my arms, and soon I’m speaking without realizing my mouth has opened. “Besides, it’s not like I had a choice. His rewards eventually became incentive enough to avoid his punishments.”
“Ah, yes, a few lashings on the hand would be motivation to learn quickly–”
“It wasn’t the only place he left his mark,” I say bitterly. “The point is, I learned fast.”
“And what was your reward?”
I pause and try to think back to those eight months when I had been Scott’s property. The first time he came to me with a book, he had thrown it into my lap and had said in that cruel voice of his that I was going to learn how to read. I had scoffed at him and had thrown the book back. Within a second, his hand had firmly grasped my hair, pulling my head back so that I could see his black eyes glaring through me. It was the first time I learned of my role and the repercussions of disobedience.
He had leaned close to me, his breath brushing against my cheek. “You’re going to learn how to read.”
I had gritted my teeth and spat, “Or else?”
He had released my hair and cupped my chin—one of those rare moments where his touch became gentle. “There is no ‘or else’.”
I scowl at the memory and give Keenan an evasive response. “Food and a warm bed. That was my reward.”
The detective is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s returned to reading his paper. But he surprises me by speaking. “Hmmm, I was under the impression you slept with him in his bed every night, or at least on most occasions. You were his concubine, after all. I assumed that’s why he had purchased you.”
A resentful laugh escapes me. “You don’t know how wrong you are. The only time that man ever touched me was to inflict pain and there was never anything sexual about it.”
When I lower my cup and look up at him, the newspaper is forgotten and he’s regarding me with emotions I can’t quite decipher. Probing further than I typically dare with him—but not enough to break the barrier in his mind—I encounter his usual profound curiosity mingled with anger and a hint of smugness. Somehow I have fallen into some sort of trap. By feigning indifference and indirectly probing me, Keenan has managed to provoke me enough to reveal snippets of information concerning my past. It’s more than I have ever said out loud about Scott. The last thing I ever intended to do was to feed the detective’s interest about the dead blocker, and in under two minutes I have done exactly that. His brows pull together slightly, aware I have discovered his ruse, and a trace of disappointment fills the room.
Before either one of us can speak, Mrs. Whitmore enters and offers Keenan a letter. “A message has arrived for you, sir.”
The detective unfolds the paper, and his gaze travels back toward me. “It appears Mrs. Anderson has finally decided to let us speak with her son.”
I abruptly jump out of my chair, eager for another distraction. “Great! I’m finished if you want to leave now.”
“Of course.”
At those words, I don’t wait for him to stand before I rush out of the room. When he finally joins me in the foyer, I’m already wearing my coat and gloves. He lifts a brow, and his mouth twitches with suppressed humor. I suppose he’s right. I try not to growl at the detective as he takes his precious time getting ready.
I’m so close to pushing him outside when he finally opens the door and gestures for me to walk out first. After entering the motor vehicle, he drives into the north district, and I recognize the streets as we pass them. When we reach Duval Avenue, I notice everything appears differently in the light of day. The street is serene, as if a murder had never occurred last night, and even Mr. Anderson’s estate is eerily tranquil when the butler permits our entrance.
The moment I enter the house, I’m bombarded with that overwhelming grief again. It’s as potent—perhaps even more so—than the stench of decay that surrounds a rotting corpse. Instinctively, I lift a hand to cover my nose, like it could possibly dilute the smell. But, of course, it can’t. The detective glances at me warily, and I abruptly lower my hand, feeling a little foolish.
A woman marches toward us, her expression severe. “And who are you?”
I suspect from the faint signs of age present in her face and the grey streaking her hair that she’s in her early forties. She is pretty despite the fact society would consider her past her prime. Though she spoke forwardly, her voice had trembled slightly, fearful of challenge and desperate to keep that fear at bay. Her attire informs me she is not the housekeeper, but rather Mrs. Anderson.
“I’m Detective Keenan Edwards and–”
“No,” she says sharply, lifting her head high. “I told you my son needs a few days. He’s in no condition to be harassed.”
“Mrs. Anderson I assure you–”
“I’m sorry Mr. Edwards, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She lifts her head higher to make her point clear.
The detective’s confusion swirls with mine, overwhelming the room with its potency. Obviously the woman wasn’t the one to send us the message.
A young man appears in the hallway behind her, and the resemblance is unmistakable. “Calm down, mother. I’m the one who sent for them.”
Mrs. Anderson’s head snaps back to face the young man. “Andrew–”
He holds up a hand to cease his mother’s protests, and I notice the glass of liquor in his other hand. “Please, mother, I’d rather get it over with now.”
She closes her mouth and steps out of our way. Rather than taking a sip, Andrew tilts his head back and swallows the rest of his alcohol in one gulp. I glance at Keenan uncertainly, wondering if this isn’t the best time to question Andrew considering he’s been drinking.
Andrew’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you coming inside, Detective?”
Keenan glances one last time at Mrs. Anderson before heading toward Andrew. He doesn’t notice when she frowns heavily or when her eyes glaze over with the beginnings of tears. The Elite have only briefly informed her there is an empath persuading its victims to kill, so she’s frightened for her son’s safety. For some bizarre reason, I feel compelled to offer this stranger consolation for her loss. But when she glares at me, I recover my sanity and ignore her. She doesn’t want my comfort or my pity.
When I reach the two men, Andrew’s eyes skim over me in mild interest before he walks into the room. Thankfully, he didn’t inherit his father’s black eyes. Instead, they’re a warm brown—almost like the rich colour of the liquor he’s drinking.
As I follow him into the room, a wave of nausea grips me and forces me to reach out to the nearest stable thing. Unfortunately, it happens to be the detective. It takes me a moment to recover, and I slowly release my death grip on his shirt. The anguish I had smelled in the foyer is more concentrated in this room, its source standing near the decanter of liquor. I hate misery. I can tolerate any other emotion, but sorrow—that gut-wrenching despair that eats away at the soul? Well, that sort of emotion is like a vacuous force; it swallows the life around it until there’s nothing left but an empty carcass. And Andrew is drowning in it, the scent potent enough to mask the stench of liquor and cigarettes clinging to his body.
Andrew glances at Keenan, a bottle of liquor in his hand. “Care for a drink, Detective?”
“No, thank you.”
The young man turns those caramel brown eyes on me expectantly, and I quickly shake m
y head. He shrugs and pours himself another glass. “Please, sit.”
The detective and I each sit in a chair, while Andrew sits on the sofa across from us. He rests his glass on the table between us and proceeds in lighting a cigarette. His sack coat has been long abandoned and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up—even his collar is undone. He looks remarkably like a younger version of Mr. Anderson, but he has his mother’s eyes, even if they are currently bloodshot. His clothes are wrinkled, and I suspect he has slept in them—if he slept at all last night. He exhales slowly, opaque tendrils of smoke slithering out of his nostrils and mouth, and looks at the detective.
“So what do you want to know?”
“Tell us about last night, Andrew. Why did you go see your father?”
“I thought he wanted to speak with me.” The man pauses to pull on the cigarette with his lips before continuing. “I was at the club when I received a message that my father wished to see me. I took my time, of course. I resented him for thinking he could just call on me anytime and expect me to run to him immediately. God, I hated him.”
Andrew falls silent, staring vacantly at his glass. His animosity toward his father becomes tangible like the smoke that permeates the air around him, layering the atmosphere with yet another cloud of discord. I wrap my arms around my torso. There’s too much emotion; I’m beginning to dread the moment when the detective will ask me to enter Andrew’s mind. I’m reminded of Rachel’s and my own despair when I had been lying in the underground prison a month ago. Neither memory is one I wish to reminisce about at the moment, so I hastily shove them into the far corner of my mind. They can stay there forever for all I care.
Keenan’s pleasant voice pierces the silence, pulling Andrew out of his thoughts. “Was your relationship with your father quarrelsome?”
He exhales bitterly. “Yes, I loathed the man. He was tyrannical and cold-hearted, and he despised me just as much. You see, I was a disappointment and a burden—a waste of good breeding and wealth.”
“Was your animosity toward one another well-known?”
His breath cuts the air in a short, vicious laugh. “Yes, you could say that, Detective. When I wasn’t wishing I had someone else as a father, I was wishing him dead. I wanted him dead, and there were times when I thought I would kill him myself.” He breaks off as his words settle heavily around us, his eyes wide with horror. “Fuck.”
His head falls into his hands helplessly, and I hear a choked sob before he vigorously wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. Andrew takes a long inhale of his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly as the end of the stick between his fingers glows a bright red.
He avoids looking at us, and mumbles under his breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright, Andrew,” Keenan assures him in that soothing voice of his. “Take your time.”
Andrew snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray and takes a desperate gulp of his liquor. “Right, as I was saying. I thought he wished to speak with me, so I came home. But when I spoke to him, he acted like he never called for me. Then, the letter arrived and at that point my memory blanks out. The next thing I knew I was standing over my father’s dead body with his blood on my hands.”
“Have you ever visited the dream, memory, or pleasure house? Or spoken with any blocker recently?”
Andrew’s eyes flicker to me, and he quickly glances away. “As for being a client at any of the three houses, I can honestly say I have not.” He pauses, and here his eyes dart to my face again. “I don’t exactly find the idea of someone else in my mind appealing. And, as for blockers, I encounter several on a daily basis. Do you think one of them messed with my mind and made me kill my father?”
“Yes,” answers the detective truthfully. “Unfortunately, you’re not the first one and I doubt you will be the last. I hope you will permit Moira here to access the memory to verify your account, not that we doubt you. You have my word she will only read anything that pertains to last night’s incident and nothing more. Do you consent?”
“I doubt I have a choice, do I?”
The detective’s gaze softens in sympathy for the young man. “No, but it’ll be easier for all of us if you give her permission.”
“Alright.”
He swallows the rest of his liquor and looks at me expectantly. I’ve been dreading this moment for the past half-hour, so I reluctantly rise from my seat. Andrew’s bloodshot eyes meet mine and his face pales. He wasn’t lying when he said the idea of an empath in his mind is unappealing, but what he failed to mention was the fact the idea terrifies him. I can’t blame him, especially now the Phoenix has somehow managed to get inside his head. But not all empaths are horrible—though I may not be the best example. When I sit down beside him, I notice he’s perspiring slightly around his hairline.
I place my hand in the space between us and speak as gently as possible. “Your hand, please.”
Of course, Andrew doesn’t realize that I don’t need physical contact to enter his mind, but I hope the gesture gives him some comfort. He swallows and takes my proffered hand. When he tries to avert his gaze, I softly guide his eyes back to mine by turning his chin. Despite his nervousness, he’s shocked by my forwardness. I smile invitingly and ease my way into his grief-stricken mind. It’s easier to maintain eye contact, especially if the person is anxious. They’re less likely to resist if they see and feel you before them.
When I finally plunge into his mind, I’m not surprised by the lack of effort it took on my part. Nor am I shocked to discover his layout is rather simple like most minds I’ve encountered. His hand tenses, but I don’t dare touch him mentally like I had done with Keenan. For one, a mental touch is inherently intimate; secondly, it would only disturb the man further. I find the memory of last night wrapped in a dark cloud of melancholy and regret, and I carefully disengage the insubstantial threads of darkness to expose the memory. It comes to me sluggishly, like a drunk who has long fallen off the edge of sobriety.
Andrew walks into his father’s study to find the man seated behind his black desk, and I cringe at the sight of Mr. Anderson’s cold eyes. I had forgotten how much he could infuriate me with just one look. In this memory, however, there is no trace of lust in his gaze like there was when his eyes would settle on me. Rather, I find pure, unbridled disappointment.
“I see you’ve come back to try to squeeze more money from me.” His father’s words are spoken with venom, and Andrew’s rage escalates through the haze of liquor he’s consumed. “If I would have known you’d be such a failure, I would have left you out on the streets the moment you were born.”
The last comment opens up an old wound in Andrew, and his wrath is quickly accompanied by feelings of guilt and rejection. The only way he can hide his hurt is by stoking his hatred. “Believe me when I say I don’t enjoy being your son any more than you enjoy being my father.”
“Then why are you here, Andrew?” Richard is unperturbed by his son’s animosity. In fact, he almost appears bored and eager to get rid of the young man.
Andrew chuckles, but his confusion is unmistakable. “Really, father, is this some sort of joke?”
“What are–”
The butler appears at the doorway and interrupts Richard. “Sir, my apologies for intruding, but there’s a letter for–”
“I’ll read it later,” dismisses Mr. Anderson.
“It’s for Andrew, sir.”
Andrew accepts the letter and tears it open. His fingers fumble clumsily to unfold the paper, and it takes a moment for his eyes to focus on the written letters. But the moment they do, Andrew’s consciousness blanks and the outline of a bird on fire flashes before me, the flames bright and hot in my mind.
I stumble out of Andrew’s mind, as if the Phoenix’s insignia had physically pushed me out of the memory. When I finally focus on the man beside me, I can see he’s struggling to maintain composure. His jaw is clenched, and his other hand trembles in his lap. He swallows, his eyes blinking rapidly to wipe away the th
reat of tears.
I squeeze his hand before releasing him. “Thank you, Andrew.”
He inhales deeply and glances at me, his growing curiosity overshadowing his distress. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I glance at the detective uncertainly, but he simply nods, permitting me to speak the truth. “An empath has been in your mind. Whoever this empath is, they are the one who used persuasion on you to kill your father.”
Andrew’s eyes widen in obvious fear, and he shakily lights another cigarette. He exhales heavily, and then finally speaks. “But wouldn’t I remember having an empath persuade me?”
“Not exactly. The empath was careful to block the memory from you, so you wouldn’t remember being placed under the persuasion or killing your father.”
Keenan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re doing everything we can to find the empath responsible, Andrew. But it’s imperative you keep this information to yourself. I know this must be a very difficult time for you and you’ve experienced a traumatic event, but can I trust you to keep quiet?”
Andrew nods, his bloodshot eyes holding Keenan’s gaze. “You have my word, Detective. Now keep your word you’ll find the bastard.”
“I promise.”
Keenan stands, and I gratefully follow him out of the room with measured steps. Even though I pity Andrew’s situation, I don’t think I could have spent a moment longer in that room with him. Mrs. Anderson isn’t anywhere to be found, so Keenan and I walk directly into the foyer. My eyes unwittingly flicker to the closed door of Richard’s office, remembering the sight of his limp, dead body behind his desk.
“Moira?” The sound of my name draws my attention away from the memory, and I assume a neutral expression before looking at Keenan.
“Are we heading to the police station?”
He nods. “The Chief will want to hear about our discussion with Andrew.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t take his time donning his coat and hat, and it isn’t long before we’re outside again. I enter the vehicle beside him and don’t mind that we’re silent on the drive to the police station. Even though I’m no longer in the house, my mind is still focused on that door. If someone had died in my home, I don’t think I could live there anymore, especially if the person was close to my heart. The house would only be a cruel reminder of their death, and the room in which they had died would forever be tainted with darkness.
The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) Page 3