Page 84 of Shattered Souls
…To fucking Bertram!
The three of them share an uneasy look. It’s Grayson who spells it out for me. “You’re an… inconvenience. A problem. A… nuisance.” Logan growls in warning, one leg bouncing erratically under the table. Grayson’s hard stare slides his way. “Obviously, none of us think that,” he drawls, glowering at Logan. “But I imagine it’s what your mo—” It’s my turn to glare at him, and he quickly corrects himself. “Lydiais thinking.” He sighs. “I don’t know what her plans were after she offloaded Aurora”—Cue another furious hiss from Logan—“but I’m guessing she knows she can’t put you off indefinitely. At some point, you’ll go to the police and become a problem she can’t handle.”
“Now, with Bertram going after you…” Royce adds with a grimace.
I bark out a cold, caustic laugh that doesn’t even sound like it comes from me. “She’s jealous.” Another arctic snort that doesn’t feel like mine. “My mother tried to kill me because she’s fucking jealous.”
It would be hilarious if it wasn’t fuckinginsane.
Except I’m now bent over the table, laughing hysterically. Because obviously,thisis what breaks me.Thisis the line from which I won’t return.
“My mother tried to kill me,” I wheeze out.
“Uhh.” Logan. “Is she okay?”
“Does she look fucking okay to you?” Grayson grinds out.
“Riley?” A hand rests against my upper arm.
My entire body continues to shake with laughter. The kind that signifies to those around them that you have fucking snapped. Spilled your marbles all over the floor.Warning! Warning! Get the straitjacket!
“I mean, who can say they were nearly murdered by their own mother?” Tears overflow and stream down my face. “What is that called? There must be a name for that. Like patricide but…”
“Filicide.”
Blinking through the film covering my eyes, I stare at Royce.
“That’s what it’s called—Filicide. Although technically, since she didn’t succeed, it doesn’t apply.”
“Yet. She didn’t succeedyet.” Because Lydia James—or Van Doren, I guess—is anything if not persistent.
It’s that acknowledgment that zaps the energy from me. My shoulders slump. I deflate, and those cackles of laughter turn into sobs. Heavy, heart-wrenching sobs.
I shouldn’t be this upset, not after everything.
I’m not even sure that I am that upset. It’s more the shock of it all. The realization—not that I needed it—that I mean so little to my own mother. The woman who carried me in her womb for nine months. Who gave birth to me. Who raised me.
I would lay down my life for Aurora. Would willingly have done so from the moment those pink lines showed up on the pregnancy test.
So why could my mother never do the same for me?
What is so inherently wrong with me that my own mother would hate me so much that she would steal every ounce of happiness I try to obtain for myself?
“Hey, shush.” I’m wrapped up in strong arms as I’m carried from the room before being deposited on someone’s lap on the sofa. I inhale, breathing in the crisp scent of Logan’s body wash. The others settle around us while I sob quietly into Logan’s t-shirt—one he put on while I was showering. The entire time, Logan murmurs soothingly into my ear while Royce’s grounding presence presses in on my left side as he rubs calming circles up and down my back, and a smooth hand that can only belong to Grayson holds tightly onto mine, anchoring me.
Slowly, my wracking sobs turn to hiccupped whimpers until there is nothing but silence. The four of us sit in that silence. Words feel inadequate and unnecessary at this moment. They understand that nothing they can say will change what’s happened or make the pain disappear. All they can do is be here, and that’s precisely what they’re doing. Their unspoken support fills the room, making it clear that I’m not alone. And that’s all I truly need right now.
“She’s got no idea she sold my daughter to Bertram, does she?” My voice is hoarse, cracking over the syllables when I finally speak.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Royce answers softly.
“What a messed up twist of fate, that is.”
Logan snorts, still holding me firmly against him.
“How are we going to get her back?” I ask the room. While discussing how my mother paid some thug to hit me with his car, they haven’t once mentioned locating Aurora’s whereabouts, so I’m assuming we still don’t know.
That knowledge leaves me cold and empty. Perhaps I’d cry if I had any more tears left in me. As it stands, all I feel is hollow.
