Page 88 of Dream a Little Dream

The words might suggest he agreed with her continued appeal that she was a battered wife. That she’d not known thedeviant nature of her husband. She was an abused woman. When, in reality, she hated how it was Frank who got them caught. His sloppiness. Hisimperfection.

Roisin’s eyes glinted, the faintest sign of recognition that she was being led. But she wasn’t ready to give up the control yet. “I’ve turned it all into a positive.” She lit up. “I have a degree now, Dr Lyons. You should be proud of me. I’ve turned to academia!”

“That’s wonderful to hear. Which discipline?” Kenny allowed her to feel in charge of this new line of conversation.

“Psychology.” She grinned. “I’ll be a head doctor like you one day.”

Perish the fucking thought.“That’s good. It might help you understand yourself better. Help you with the urges.”

And there it was. The shift in her eyes, a flash of something dark and primal. Roisin wasn’t finished with her old life. She had merely adapted, hidden it under layers of performance because of the inability to act on her desires.

Then, bold and brass, she asked, “How’s my son?”

Kenny’s heart slammed in his chest, though his face remained composed. There was no way she could know. No way atall. But something in her voice…it had him second-guessing.

“We don’t have access to that information, Mrs Howell,” Jack cut in, hoping not only to support Kenny but also pushing forward.

Roisin’s eyes never left Kenny’s. “How is he,Dr Lyons?”

Kenny waited a beat, calculating his response. Roisin needed breadcrumbs, something to keep her talking. He had to ignore Jack’s eyes on him, and he placed a hand on Jack’s knee, undetected under the table, giving a gentle squeeze to say he’d got this. Trust him. Let him keep going.

“He’s doing well,” Kenny said, the words cautious. “He’s dealing with…issues, of course. But he’s healthy. Living his life.”

Roisin smiled again, softer this time. “Is he beautiful?”

Kenny’s stomach turned, but he answered. “Yes. He is.” That was the most truth spoken during this entire conversation. Roisin looked thoroughly enchanted.

“Does he still play piano? The way I taught him?”

“I believe he does. Yes.” Kenny desperately tried to shake the vision of Aaron at his mother’s piano, performing his rendition of the song Roisin had sung throughout her arrest, stating it was the only thing that would comfort her baby boy.

But that was difficult when Roisin started to humDream a Little Dream Of Mewhilst tending to her crochet.

“I bet he’s left a trail of broken hearts.” She tsked. “Nasty little girls, trying to get his attention. But not my boy. My boy does what he’s told. What his mummy wants.” Her grin widened, chilling, staring straight at Kenny.

Kenny removed his hand from Jack’s knee beneath the table. Ignoring the challenge, he had to push her now, edge her into a place where she might reveal more than she intended. “Can I ask you a question, Roisin? One you might find uncomfortable?”

Roisin’s lips twitched, her hands never stopping their rhythmic stitching. “All your questions are uncomfortable, Dr Lyons.”

He offered a faint smile, placing his hands deliberately on the table, a subtle signal that he was anchoring the conversation. “I’m told that often.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate, a tactic to entice her in. “Do you believe Frank took his own life?”

Roisin stilled her crochet for a split second before resuming. “I hope he did.”

That was the first crack in her mask, and Kenny seized it. He needed to dig deeper, to see how far she would let him go before the truth snuck through. “But do you believe he would?” he asked, tone careful, measured, the way one might coax aconfession without ever asking for one. “Or should we be looking into his death more closely?”

“Heshouldhave.”

Something about her phrasing caught Kenny’s attention, and he let the silence stretch, knowing it wouldn’t last. Roisin always broke first, unable to endure the weight of quiet. A habit born from her childhood, a twisted survival instinct forged during her time in the cult. Back then, silence had been her prison. One that followed her after her mother handed her over as a willing sacrifice. Systematic abuse taught her to keep quiet, to endure being gagged and bound, and, eventually, to inflict pain herself. She learned to smile through it, to adapt, to survive. Now, the darkness of those years clung to her like a second skin, reshaping her idea of normal. Just another pastime, she’d say, like crochet.

And so Kenny waited.

“When we exceed our uses, Dr Lyons, we should all lay down on our own swords. Allow the next in line to succeed where we failed.” Her voice was smooth, but the meaning was razor-sharp.

Jack nudged Kenny’s leg under the table. Kenny didn’t respond. He stayed fixed on Roisin. “Do you feel Frank had outlived his purpose?”

Roisin’s hands stopped moving. Her icy gaze launched up from her stitching, meeting Kenny’s with unnerving calm. “What purpose would that be, dear?”

Kenny tilted his head, reading her reaction. “Being a good husband to you.”

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