So bad, you’re watching a movie right now like it was nothing?
I want to say that. But don’t. Because then I might have to admit that Nick was right. She’s not OK. She will never be OK. She was bred to be a sociopath just like me. Just like Donovan.
And yeah… just like Nick.
“Well, have some… good, clean teen fun. And don’t be late for dinner. You know McKay hates that.”
“Oh, my God. Whatever. See you then.”
And she drops me.
I’m smiling, pretty satisfied with how this meeting turned out, when I realize something.
Nick. He said… McKay. He said, She’s not different. Not from me. Not from you. Not from McKay. Not from any of us.
But that’s not true. We aren’t all the same. McKay isn’t like us. He will never be like us.
There’s a two-hour drive home. And I should be thinking about Nick Tate and what the fuck he’s up to with the Company.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about.
Nick can do whatever he wants and he can think whatever he wants. I don’t really give a fuck. We barely work for the Company these days anyway. The odd clean-up job here and there is like a vacation compared to what the other teams do. And they can’t touch me. They know that. The whole fucking arrangement since I bought Indie has been one long win-win as far as I’m concerned. If that Shadow of Secrets calling himself Nick Tate wants to take some people out with him, go for it, dude.
Just leave me out of it.
I’m done with that shit.
No. What I’m thinking about is Nathan St. James. Because he and Indie are getting pretty fucking tight. And I get it. He’s the boy next door. Indie has this tattered-up romance novel about some teenager falling for the boy next door. I don’t even know where she got that thing. Maybe on one of her clandestine trips upriver for supplies? Which reminds me—I maybe need to put some kind of tracker on her. We didn’t even know she was going upriver and apparently she’s been doing that for years.
But she’s got boyfriends on her mind. And while it could be worse—she could’ve fallen for the local high-school football jock in the nearest town—I’m not ready for her to start dating.
But then I wonder… maybe she’s been dating that kid this whole time and I didn’t know it? Because I’m dumb. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old dumbass man who has no clue what teenage girls think about and I let McKay handle all that shit. And she’s been hanging out with Nathan St. James since she was ten. So… like… have they been kissing and shit?
I get this weird, sick feeling in my stomach when I think about that. I don’t wanna think about it. But she is fifteen. And back when I was fifteen, I was fucking around with all kinds of girls. Who were also fifteen.
No. I don’t like where this Nate thing is headed. Not one bit.
Indie has a job to do. And I probably got a little too comfortable with Nate because he’s just been a fixture around Old Home for so long, I started assuming he was one of us.
Which he sort of is. His father was, at least. He was a lot older than me growing up so I didn’t pay much attention to him. And I was busy being me. In fact, I don’t even know what happened to that guy. I don’t even know where Nate came from. Just… one day he was there.
He wasn’t a baby. And there was never a mother over there. Just the grandfather and then the kid. He was about four, maybe, when he showed up. Five at the oldest.
And it occurs to me that I should look into this shit. It occurs to me that I should’ve looked into this shit a long-ass time ago.
When I get home McKay’s truck is gone. I was gonna talk to him first since he’s the one who pays the most attention to Indie on the day to day. But I look across the lake and then the next thing I know I’m heading down the path that leads to the little brick carriage house.
I even sneak a little. Like I’m spying. And when I started down the path I didn’t intend on spying. I just figured it was time I had a little chat with Grandpa St. James. Make sure we’re all on the same page here as far as my… Indie… goes.
Which then has me wondering what I should call her when I talk to the old fart.
She’s not my little sister. And she’s not my daughter.
So yeah. This is probably why I let McKay do this shit. There is no word for what Indie is to me.
Except the actual description of what Indie is to me. Which is my little bought-and-paid-for psycho assassin kid.
But I can’t really say that.
So I stop just off to the left side of the house to think about this for a moment.
Hello, Mr. Grandpa St. James. I’m here to have a talk with you about your grandson’s intentions with my…? My what?
Friend? Not really.
Ward? That sounds very Charles Dickens.
Minor dependent?
I go with that and continue towards the house. It’s as good as anything. But I’m just coming up to the front when I hear giggling.
And you know what? It’s not the kind of giggling you do when you’re watching a funny movie.
It’s soft giggling. And then a word. “Stop.” Just one giggly word. “Stop it.” And again.
And that rational voice inside me is screaming, Go home. Talk to her later. You do not want to know what’s happening in there.
Which is very good advice. And I should listen to myself.
But I don’t. I walk to the window and peek in.
Indie and Nate on the couch. Heads together. Lips, if not touching, just about to. His hand squirming its way up her shirt.
She giggles again. “Stop it! I told you. Not until later!”
“Not until later?” I echo.
And then I realize the window is open and they just heard me.
“Adam!” Indie squeals and she’s up on her feet so fast, I almost think I was seeing things.
But no. Her shirt is pulled crooked, one bare shoulder exposed.
“What the fuck is going on here?” My voice is low and growly and threatening.
“Oh, fuck,” Nate says. “I’m sorry. We were just messing around.”
I stare at him. No. Glare at him through the window. And then the next thing I know I’m inside, grabbing him by the fucking shirt. Pushing him up against the wall. Knocking shit over as he struggles to get away. Indie is tugging on my arm, and then a picture falls off the wall, and somehow Indie is on the floor. Looking up at me. Screaming. “He was teasing me! That’s all! It was a tease!”
I hear it. I get it. I do. But I can’t bring myself to take my fucking fingers off this kid’s throat.
He’s choking now, his hands gripping mine. But he’s a fifteen-year-old kid and I’m a twenty-eight-year-old asshole. So there’s no hope for him at all.
And then there’s a blinding flash of light in front of my eyes and ringing in my ears as something very hard and solid hits the side of my head.
I wake up with a piercing headache and McKay bent over me, shaking me by the shoulders.
“He’s coming around.”
That’s McKay.
“Oh, thank God. Adam? Oh, my God. Adam? Are you OK?”
That’s Indie.
I blink a few times, trying to focus my eyes, and then McKay is pulling me up to a sitting position.