Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
I’m out of the door before the driver can help me from the car, my loafers kicking up gravel in my haste.
“Archie! Hugh!” My voice echoes, the entryway ominously dark as I close the door behind me. Before I take a step, Tom steps out from the living room.
“Lock the door.”
I turn and knock down the latch.
“And the deadlock.”
I glance warily over my shoulder as I do. “What’s this about, Tom?”
“What it’s always about, Iz.”
“Not that bloody island again,” I mutter, swinging around to face him.
He reaches out, and I find myself letting him lift my purse out of my hands. “Your phone?”
“It’s in there,” I answer automatically. “Where are the boys? Why aren’t they with Sandy and Holland?”
“Why aren’t they with you, is what I want to know.”
“Don’t you dare,” I mutter vehemently, holding up my finger. Okay, pointing it at him. “Don’t you dare question my parenting when you can’t even be bothered to call to speak to them.”
“I’m busy fucking working.”
“That’s a poor excuse.” Does he think I lie about eating bonbons all day?
“You don’t know what I go through just trying to stay afloat,” he answers as though hurt by my accusation.
“No, I wouldn’t know what that feels like,” I snipe. “Hugh? Archie? Come on, we’re going out.” Out where, I don’t know. My car is still at the airport.
“But that’s not something her ladyship has to worry about anymore, is it? Not with all the new money you’ve got in your purse.” He throws said purse in the living room, then growls, “Get in the fucking kitchen.” And for the first time since I’ve known him, Tom grabs me roughly. His fingers clasp my arm tightly, and he pulls me from the door, hurling me in front of him. “Move!”
“Ow, Tom!” I begin to turn when he plants his palm between my shoulders and pushes me hard. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I’m a man on the edge,” he yells. “On the fucking edge!”
The bright and airy kitchen is tidy, just as I left it. But for the sight of my sons sitting stock-still at the island. Hugh’s face is grubby and smudged with mud, and he’s still wearing his football jersey. Archie’s shoulders are hunched and he’s as white as a sheet. Both boys look like they’ve been crying.
“It’s okay.” I slide my arms around their thin shoulders, pulling them close. Their arms thread around me, fingers clinging to my shirt. “I’m here.”
“Daddy’s so mean,” Archie whispers in my ear. But what Hugh says, I don’t think I heard right. Holland is in the laundry room?
“Right, boys. Like I told you in the car, now that your mother’s here, we can sort this out.”
“Sort what out? Why have they been crying?”
“Probably because they don’t get smacked enough,” he announces, making both boys flinch. “Your mother’s new husband has stolen my life from me.”
Is he jealous? It takes me a moment to process this because my first instinct is to believe his family is his life. But then I remember we’re talking about Tom.
“This is about money, not your life. The problems with that bloody island predate Van ever coming into our lives.”
“A good wife would’ve tried to get me out of it.”
“We’re divorced! And I did what you asked. You put this family at risk, so I went and met that bloody thug!” Who is now probably very bloody. Also, probably very dead.
“Ye’d fall in a bucket of shite and climb out smellin’ of roses!” Tom’s accent slips as his voice rises. “But what could I expect from marrying a hoor, born with a silver spoon hangin’ out of her mouth!”
I tighten my grip on my sons, feeling them tremble. I’ve never seen Tom like this. He’s self-centered and petulant. His problems are never of his own making and always the fault of someone else. But this is different. Is he having some kind of mental health crisis?
“Tom, please, calm down.” I try a different tone, a different tack. “You’re frightening the boys. You don’t want them to see you like this, do you?”
“Aye, you worry about them and their sniveling tears. You’d like to see me dead and out of the way. That’s what’s going on here!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I turn from the boys to grab the roll of paper towels for Archie’s bubbling nose. Ridiculous is the right word for how Tom’s behaving, but now wasn’t the right time to point it out as I find myself yanked back by the hair.
“Ow!”
He drags me across the kitchen, hurling me against the fridge. Twisting viciously on the strands, he forces my face into the stainless steel.
“You never understood me,” he growls as Archie begins to sob behind me. “It isn’t fair that you should come out of this with so fucking much.”
“Tom, please.” My knees turn watery, his grip on my hair so tight that my eyes water. “You’re hurting me.” I instinctively reach back to ease the pain in my head when he smashes my face into the fridge. The pain in my cheek is nothing to the pain caused by the cries of my children.