Page 76 of Run, Little Rabbit

“And you just managed to get all the information off it?” Conor asks as he bats his twin’s hand away from his fringe.

“No,” I scoff. “I had to wait for an acquaintance of mine to decrypt it.”

“Ahh, your little tech whiz you keep at Mother’s old home,” Cillian says smugly.

How does he know so much? I need to get better at keeping secrets. “You know it’s annoying how much you know.”

“It pays to know,” he replies as Conor whispers something in his ear. “Oh, yes. The files. So, Father had Mother murdered.”

Another statement rather than a question. “Looks that way.”

They don’t even look bothered or hurt about it. Then again, I’m not really sure how their emotions work. They appear bored most of the time, but I think that’s because they find the rest of the world beneath their notice. If it doesn’t bore them, then that’s when they show some kind of reaction. I guess the news of Mum being murdered isn’t interesting enough. I know they're wired differently than I am, so I try not to take that personally. They’re sociopaths, and I’m—well, I’m not quite sure what I am. I revel in the chaos and enjoy the power of a kill. I definitely feel, so I’m not a psychopath, but I’m not sure a label will make a difference. It most likely stems from the trauma of having a violent father and a murdered mother, and I think I cling to the ideal of my mother because my father was so violent. I have this image that she was this caring goddess of a woman, but in reality I don’t really remember much about her at all.

“We aren’t surprised,” Cillian murmurs softly. “Father’s nature is volatile at the best of times; if Mother did something to anger or upset him, I wouldn’t put it past him to order a hit on her.”

“Really?” Conor asks his twin, and my eyebrows hit my hairline. The twins disagreeing? I have to look out the window to see if pigs are flying.

Cillian turns to his twin, a calculating look invading his features. “Why are you surprised?”

“Mother might not have loved Father, but he adored her. In his own way,” Conor says, but his voice is unsteady.

“What do you remember about them?” I was five when Mum died, and the twins would have been eight.

Cillian turns back to me, his gaze assessing. “Why is this important? Why blackmail Father over this?”

Anger rises in me, sudden and potent. “Can’t you figure it out?”

“Because he lied.” Conor nods as if he understands, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like I do.

“If he killed her, it means everything is a lie. His grief, his sorrow. Every attempt at comforting me was a lie. It makes me sick and angry. He robbed me of any chance of being normal, of having a family, because let’s face it, I’m only worth what he can get in return for marrying me off.” Tears start to brim over my eyes, and eventhatmakes me angry. That I’m crying over something so selfish.

“Echo,” Cillian starts, but I don’t let him talk.

I point my finger accusingly at the pair of them. “And you two. You sat in those meetings for ayearknowing I was more than capable of sitting at that table, and you did nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Conor says quietly.

“Oh, really? All the smug fucking smirks were what? Your attempt at support? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Cillian sighs deeply, like I’m the frustrating one. But they just sit there, with no expression. Giving nothing away about what they’re thinking or feeling.

“You’re right,” Conor says as he places his hands on the counter-top in front of him. “We don’t understand how you feel; it’s been conditioned out of us over too many years, but we do understand why you’re angry.”

“And we have been working on a way to make a difference.” Cillian mimics his brother’s posture, but I’m not sure he even realises he does it anymore. Seems like it’s just become second nature for them to appear to be the same, even when they’re not.

I draw back and eye them warily. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what we say,” Cillian replies with a frown.

“We’ve been undermining Father for almost a year,” Conor adds.

Wait. What? “Explain.”

Again Cillian sighs at having to explain something to me.

I tentatively touch the throwing knife strapped to the inside of my thigh. “I might not be a high-functioning genius like either of you, but sigh at me like that again, Cillian, and I’ll throw a knife at you.”

That earns me a mirrored smile from both of them. And yes, it’s still fucking creepy.

---