by Emma Chase
“Not even seven in the morning and we’re already discussing bloodshed,” my oldest sister, Bridget, says as she breezes through the back door, carrying my one-year-old niece, Rose, on her hip. “Such lovely breakfast conversation.”
My mum takes Rosie, giving her a piece of toast to gnaw on, and Bridget pours herself a cup of tea, sipping it with a tired sigh, while rubbing her firm, bulging belly.
Doing what I do, it’s important to be aware, observant. To take note of small details that the average person would miss—because the devil, and most times the danger, is in the details.
The marks scattered down Bridget’s arm—finger-size bruises—immediately catch my attention.
“How’d they get there?” I ask her.
She glances down like she’s just noticing them, then rolls her hazel eyes heavenward.
“Desmond had one too many at the pub last night. We had it out when he got home.”
“He grabbed you?” I ask evenly.
“Only after I smacked him upside the head first. I bruise easy these days, Tommy—it’s nothing.”
Sullivans don’t come small but the girls in my family tend to veer towards petite—delicate boned. Bridget’s husband is in masonry; he works with stone and concrete all day and he’s got the muscles to show for it. And she’s six months pregnant.
“Right.” I nod, schooling my features.
That’s part of the job too. To not give anything away, any hint of what you may be thinking or feeling—or planning. I’m very good at my job.
But that doesn’t fool my mother. While the rest of the clan engages in conversation, she comes up beside me, speaking low. “Leave it alone, Tommy. What goes on between a husband and a wife is no one’s business but theirs.”
My mum is a good woman—but she’s not a soft woman. She’s not passive or subtle. Her kindness and love comes with an overbearing, steel-tipped edge. The kind of nurturing that says you’d damn well better let her mother you or she’ll make you live to regret it.
Which is why I’ll never understand her ridiculous “it’s between a husband and wife” crock-of-shit stance. My sweet sister has bruises on her arm—and I’m supposed to be all right with that?
Not in this lifetime.
“I mean it, Tommy,” she warns.
“Yeah, Mum.” I give her my easy, boyhood grin. “I know you do.”
When you’re a part of a large family, siblings pair up into factions—it’s the only way to survive. Janey is the most badass of my sisters—if she’s ever interested in being a bodyguard, Lo and I would hire her on the spot.
Janey’s eyes meet mine and she lifts the serrated knife she’s using to slice bread, quirking a brow. I nod in return. And just like that, our plan is in place. Later this evening, me and Janey will swing by Katy’s Pub to communicate to Desmond that if Bridget ends up with another mark, Janey will cut his balls off with that bread knife and I’ll make him swallow them.
“Hey, Tommy,” Bridget says, “I meant to tell you, I saw a flat for rent over near the hospital. Seems like a nice place, with views of the water.”
None of my siblings flew the cuckoo’s nest until they got married. Living here was fine when I was working on Prince Nicholas’s security team—we were traveling more often than not. But now that I’m here full-time it’s a bit crowded for comfort. Stifling. I’m a manspreader—I like my space.
“I’ll give it a look.”
Andy squeezes out from around the table and heads off to his job at the automobile plant. No sooner is he out the door than my younger brother Lionel comes charging down the stairs, late for his class at uni. When he moves to nab the last slice of ham, my mother slaps his hand away.
“That’s for your dad. If you oversleep, you starve.”
It’s the law of the jungle around here.
Still, when Lionel grabs his rucksack off the counter I see Mum slip him a sandwich and a banana, because she’s not quite as hard as she wants us to think she is.
A few minutes after Lionel’s exit, my dad comes through the perpetually revolving door. For as long as I can remember, Dad’s worked the graveyard shift at the power plant.
Like Homer Simpson.
He sinks down into his chair at the table, kissing my mother’s cheek when she slides his warmed plate and tea in front of him.
“Thank you, love.” He chews on a bite of ham and gazes around at us, his balding head gleaming beneath the white glow of the kitchen ceiling light. “How are my angels today?”
Between the two of them, Dad’s the softie. The pushover. Growing up, if one of us deserved the belt—and with eight of us around, someone always deserved the belt—he’d take us back behind the shed and give us one, single smack. But he’d look so stricken afterward, the guilt alone kept us well-behaved for days.
Though I still can’t tell if he calls us his angels sincerely or not. I mean, Satan was an angel once too.
There’s a knock on the back door and a moment later Logan St. James steps through it, wearing his own dapper dark suit.
My sisters greet him warmly and my dad says, “Logan, how are you, son?”
When God was passing out families Logan was dealt a rotten hand, so my parents have tried to fill that space for him.
“I’m well, Mr. Sullivan,” Logan says and smiles—something he does a lot more of these days.
“Do you want a bite to eat, Lo?” my mum asks. “There’s some porridge left.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you coming to supper on Sunday?” she asks. “I’m making my roast.”
In the summer, Mum likes to do Sunday dinners up big—friends, family and half the block are invited.
“I’ll have to check with Ellie.”
“Smart man,” Winnie says with a grin.
“On top of Finn teething, she’s been feeling poorly lately,” Logan explains. “I’ll let Tommy know if we can make it.”
Finnegan is Logan and Ellie’s nine-month-old son. He’s the spitting image of his father, with his mother’s energetic zest for life.
I slip my suit jacket on. “We’ve got to get on the road.”
“Well, good luck today, boys.” My father stands and pats our backs. “Make us proud.”
Logan goes out the front door to the car, but before I can follow him, Fiona comes sneaking down the stairs with a huge bouquet of roses in her arms.
“Tommy.” She glances towards the kitchen to make sure the coast is clear. “I need you to get rid of these for me.”
I pluck the card out from between the stems.
“Who the hell is Martin MacTavish and why the fuck is he sending you flowers?”
Flowers are an instrument of seduction—a tool wicked boys use to charm good girls into debauchery. I should know; I’ve sent lots of flowers to lots of girls. And debauchery is fun.
But knowing my baby sister is getting flowers and having to contemplate that she may be doing God knows what with fuck knows who? That’s not fun.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down,” she whisper-yells. “If I wanted to answer those sorts of questions, I’d deal with Mum.”
“Then go on and deal with Mum.” I call her bluff. “Let me know how that works out for you.”
Her face collapses into a mask of pathetic pleading, and her big, sad doe eyes stab me straight through the heart. “Pleeeasse, Tommy. You know how she can be. I need your help. Please, please?”
As the youngest of many, Fiona’s superpower is finding a person’s soft spot and exploiting it. It’s near impossible to tell her no.
“All right, all right,” I relent with a sigh. “Give them here.”
“You’re the best big brother ever!” She kisses my cheek, passes me the flowers and bounces away.
Outside on the stoop, I hand the roses to Logan.
“Give these to Ellie, would you?”
“Okay.” He stares at the bouquet curiously. “Why are you giving my wife flowers?”
I shake my head. �
�Because God is punishing me. And I need to get a place of my own, that’s why.”
We make it halfway to the car before an excited, high-pitched voice calls from over the bushes on the side of the property.
“Hello there, Tommy—hi! Hey, Logan.”
Melanie Thistle has lived next door my entire life. When we were twelve I kissed her at the top of the Ferris wheel during the Autumn Pass festival, and she’s been keen on me ever since.
“Hi, Mellie,” I return.
Lo lifts his chin. “Melanie.”
She waves vigorously and smiles so broadly, I can almost see her back molars.
“How’s school treating you?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t.
But it’s automatic at this point—chatting women up is what I do.
Don’t get me wrong, the Thistles are a good lot and Mellie is a sweet girl studying to be a veterinary assistant, but she has this desperately infatuated way about her that’s off-putting. Now and then she gets this fanatical look in her eyes—and I know she’d sneak in my room and stare at me while I slept if she thought she could get away with it. Gives me the willies.
“School’s going well. Yesterday we learned about snakes—boa constrictors to be exact. They’re fascinating creatures. The way they wrap themselves around and around and around whatever they desire . . . so it can never get away. Then they just squeeze the life right out of it!”
She demonstrates by wrapping her hands around her own neck, and squeezing—hard.
“And that thing they do with their tongue—it’s like this . . . ”
Melanie flicks her tongue in and out of her mouth. Then she does it again, trying to look sultry. And failing.
“It’s really sexy, don’t you think?”
Logan squints wordlessly. And I slip on my dark aviator sunglasses.
“Right. Okay, then.” I hook my thumb towards the car. “We need to head out. There’s an appointment. Waiting.”
“Oh, of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
But before we can make a break for it, keep us is what she does.
“Your mum invited me to supper this Sunday.”
Of course she did. As far as my mother is concerned, Melanie would be the perfect daughter-in-law. Someone she could remake in her own image—like a clone. A mini-mum.
As Ellie would say . . . yikes.
“Will you be there?”
I rub the back of my neck. “It depends on work. We’ve been hammered with business lately. You know—clients and training the new hires.”
“Yes, it’s wonderful how well you’re doing. Truly.”
For a moment, I feel genuinely proud. Because Lo and I are doing well. A couple of nobodies from nowhere—who would’ve thought it?
Then Melanie keeps speaking.
“And you know my door’s always open. If you ever want to drop by—we can discuss the boa constrictors some more.”
And she’s back to flicking her tongue.
“’Bye, Mellie.” I turn and don’t stop until I reach the car.
Logan’s behind the wheel and once we’re down the block, he comments, “So . . . Melanie’s still carrying a torch for you, eh?”
“More like the Great Fire of London, yeah.” I chuckle.
“She’s probably just nervous around you.” Logan laughs. “Jittery. Ellie says she used to be like that with me back in the day. This one time, she tripped over her own feet and almost bashed her head on the kitchen counter—would’ve knocked herself clean out if I hadn’t caught her.” He shakes his head. “I think you should give Melanie a chance, take her for dinner, see how it goes.”
Logan St. James is giving me dating advice.
I push my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, stare at him, and voice the only logical conclusion.
“My mum got to you, didn’t she?”
He laughs again, turning the car onto the main road out of town.
“No, she didn’t get to me.”
His voice goes softer. Sentimental.
“It’s just . . . having Ellie and Finn, a family . . . being settled. It’s a good thing, Tommy. It’s really good.”
I nod, because I know for Lo it’s not just a good thing—it’s everything.
“And if you look past the temporary insanity and whatever she was trying to do with her tongue, Melanie’s a nice girl.”
I tend to go for women with a bit of a wild side. Feisty. A girl who can handle herself, stand up for herself. When something comes easy—and for me, women have always come easy—it’s a challenge that grabs you by the balls. Holds your attention. Heats your interest.
I look back at Logan. “Exactly. When have you ever known me to like nice girls?”
CHAPTER TWO
Abby
TIC-TOC
One of the drawbacks of being born into an extraordinary family is average can feel like utter failure. When you’re Lois Lane surrounded by a household of Supermen it can be rather . . . intimidating. Disheartening.
Or motivating, depending on your outlook.
Tic-toc
I come from a long line of remarkable people. Perfect people. People who seem like they were manufactured on a shiny assembly line of grand accomplishments.
Tic-toc
Take my father for example—Montgomery Felix Haddock, the 10th Earl of Bumblebridge—seated at the far end of the dining table, reading the morning edition of the Wessconian Times, his distinguished brow drawn low in concentration. Many would have been satisfied with their inherited title, but not my father, not in this family.
Tic-toc
He went on to become a world-renowned barrister specializing in international law and human rights. He’s also the founding partner of Haddock & Lipton, the most esteemed law firm in Wessco.
Tic-toc
Mother—Antoinette Bellamy-Haddock—seated to Father’s right, wearing her oval mother-of-pearl reading glasses, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics before the age of twenty. Twice.
She’s now the Head Chair of the Bellamy-Haddock School of Physics and Chemistry at Wilfordshire University.
Tic-toc
Beside mother is my eldest brother, Sterling—a three-time gold medal triathlon Olympian and Rhodes Scholar. His wife, Gertrude, recently developed the cure for Ebola and their ten-year-old twin daughters, Estelle and Helena, are musical prodigies in violin and cello, respectively.
Tic-toc
Seated across from Sterling’s family is my sister, Athena—an international supermodel and mathematician who managed to solve the previously unsolvable Collatz Conjecture in-between photo shoots.
And I’m not even joking.
Her husband, Jasper, sipping his tea and checking the market fluctuations on his phone, is a self-made billionaire and Governor of the Bank of Wessco.
Tic-toc
There’s an empty seat beside Jasper where my brother Luke would be sitting if he were here. Several years ago, Luke was on his way to becoming the youngest chess master in the history of the game. But then he . . . stopped.
Tic-toc
Now he travels, returning home occasionally—but he’s very good about sending photos from all his trips to the family group chat.
Tic-toc
In the seat of honor is my grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge. Her blouse is silk and dark green, matching the color of her eyes—the same shade as my own. The diamond bracelet around her slender wrist sparkles in the midmorning sun streaming through the arched windows, as she fills in the pages of her leather-bound organizer with perfect penmanship.
Tic-toc
Though my grandfather passed away years ago and there is “Dowager” in front of her title, Grandmother is still very much the head of the Haddocks. Because my father’s commitments take him out of the country, she casts the votes for the family’s seat in the House of Lords.
Tic-toc
Grandmother’s accomplishments are . . . us. She’s the glue that holds us together, the force that pushes us onwar
d and ever upward, the fuel behind our desire to bring recognition to the family name.
Tic-toc
And then, there’s me.
I graduated from one of the most prestigious universities in the country—but not early. I went on to attend an elite medical school and graduated with honors—but not as valedictorian. I’m the duck in a sea of swans. There’s nothing remarkable or extraordinary about me—though it’s not for lack of trying.
Tic-toc
“How are you progressing in your residency program, Abigail?”
Saturday brunch at the Bumblebridge estate is a quiet, reserved time for the family. A period of self-reflection and study. To refresh our focus, and prepare and plan for the week ahead. So, my grandmother’s inquiry is not an attempt at pleasant conversation—it’s a request for a status update.
Tic-toc
“Things are progressing well,” I reply. “This afternoon I’ll be scrubbing in on a laparoscopic cholecystectomy.”
I’m a surgical resident at Highgrove Hospital, with a focus in cardiovascular specialty. I gesture to the open medical journal in front of me, though I already know every step by heart. I record myself reading aloud and play it at night as I go to sleep to reinforce the information. “It’s an honor for a third year to be selected to assist in such a procedure.”
Tic-toc
“I see.” My grandmother nods. “It’s a six-year program, is that correct?”
I take a drink of water to moisten my suddenly parched throat.
“That’s right.”
“Mmm,” she hums. “And you’ll actually require all that time to get through it?”
Every pair of eyes at the table turns to me. Even Estelle and Helena stare. Creepily. Like those little REDRUM girls in The Shining.
Tic-toc
And the damned clickety-clack of the grandfather clock in the corner sounds louder than ever. More distracting.
Tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc
Can’t they hear it too?
“I’m doing everything I can to accelerate my way through the program; however, it does seem that I’ll need the full six, yes.”
She nods—not appearing disappointed exactly, but none too pleased either.
Tic-toc
“Well, perhaps an opportunity will present itself for you to distinguish yourself from the pack. For instance, if the Queen were to develop an acute cardiac condition and there were no other surgeons available—you could volunteer to perform the procedure. And then you would be forever known as the doctor who saved Queen Lenora’s life.”