“By torturing him?”
“This is a study. One rooted in science. Evolution. He’s merely a catalyst. A variable to test.”
“He’s a human being.”
“Who came to us. We didn’t seek him out. He was well-informed of who we are and what we do.”
“Enough of this! You will do as you’re told, or by God, I’ll throw your ass back into that institute for another week.” My father’s voice thunders behind me, skating down my spine. “I’ll not stand by and--”
Dr. Voigt holds his hand up, silencing my father, and for a moment, I wonder if Griffin Blackthorne will strike out at him, the way he does to anyone who threatens his pride. Instead, he lowers his head.
“The boy chooses for himself,” Dr. Voigt says. “Dole out this man’s punishment, and we’ll pay him what he’s asked for. He’ll walk away with more money than he earns in a year. Or tell him you refuse.”
The man’s jaw quivers, as if he wants to cry, but I won’t do it. My choice. I won’t let them turn me into a monster.
“I refuse.”
Two days have passed, and my father has made a point to avoid me. He hasn’t punished me for what I’m certain he views as insolence. It’s as if I don’t exist, at all.
Until today.
I sit in one of the chairs across from his desk, hands in my lap so he won’t see my fidgeting.
Across from me, he holds a rolled-up newspaper, tapping it against the top of his desk, as if in taunting, while he stares back at me.
I wonder if he’ll strike me with the thing.
In answer to my thoughts, he tosses the paper in front of me, and it flips open to the front page, where a headline reads: Boston Man Dies Horrifically After He Throws Himself From Overpass Onto Busy Traffic.
Nausea gurgles in my stomach when I catch sight of Robert Tackas’ name in the body of the article.
“Tell me, what do you think would’ve resulted in less suffering?” My father’s taunting words only twist the blade stabbing at my conscience.
“It’s not my fault.”
“Not your fault? Imagine if he’d walked out of here with the money he requested?”
“I won’t let you blame me for this.”
“I don’t have to. You blame yourself. It’s written all over your face.”
Tears spring to my eyes, the anger and guilt pulling and stretching, growing inside of me. “You could’ve given him the money.”
“Nothing is free, Lucian. Nothing. Including you.” He pushes up from his desk, and maybe it’s just the shadows behind him, but he seems larger than usual. More intimidating. As he rounds the desk, my pulse hastens, my hands balling to fists, waiting for the moment I’ll have to defend myself. “This world is made up of strong and weak. It’s believed that nature decides who thrives and who perishes, based on certain genetics we’re bestowed with at birth. But that isn’t true. Your great-grandfather, and his father before him, were starving fishermen. Men who couldn’t afford to feed their families. By all accounts, he should’ve perished with the weak. In suffering, in pain, he found strength, and that strength changed his fate.” He reaches for a half-smoked cigar balanced on the edge of an ashtray and lights it up. “One day, this company will be in your hands. And I fear it will perish there. Generations of work and toil--”
“I don’t want it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want your company, or your secret group. I want out.”
His eye twitches as he stares down at me in a brief moment of silence. “And what will you do with your life, Lucian? Play music?” At the derision and mocking in his voice, I grind my teeth, and he chuckles. “There are thousands upon thousands of musicians in the world. There is, however, only one successful shipping company in this entire country. Built by sweat and sacrifice.”
“And blood. Blood of innocent people. How many have you killed to stay on top, Father?”
“As many as it takes.” He tips his head as if studying me. Always trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “’Fucks sake, no son of mine is going to play piano for a living. You may as well have studied ballet all these years. It’s only by the grace of God that you excelled in sports, the way you did.”
Grace of God? I busted my ass. Trained hard. Never missed a practice, and went on to set records for the state. But only by the grace of God, it seems.
“You will take over this company. You will take your place in Schadenfreude. Or I will--”
“Kill me? Like you killed her?”
“Who?”
“You know exactly who I’m talking about. I saw her. In the cave. Dead. I saw you fucking her.”
His lips form the malevolent smile of a man who doesn’t care that he’s been caught. “The pedophile? The one who liked playing with little boys? Yes. I fucked her. And then I got rid of her.”
Unbidden flashes of memory flicker through my head like a sketchy dream.
A beautiful woman. Long dark hair. Her hands between my thighs.
Similar to Solange, but perhaps not as exotic, like a watered down version of her.
“You were just a boy when we hired her to be your nanny. Six years old. Your mother was suspicious of anyone who spent excessive amounts of time with you, so we installed cameras throughout the manor.” His voice gives narration to the rapid succession of images still slipping through my mind. “It started with fondling. In the bathtub, mostly. She would touch you. Harmless, mostly. Your mother … she was always so protective, but with Monique, even more so.”
Monique. Miss Monique. At the sound of her name, more images erupt inside my head.
Giggles. Soft caresses. Tickles and the chasing knots in my stomach.
“Your mother insisted we get rid of her.” Eyes on me, he puffs his cigar. “So I did.”
Memories spin and tumble in my brain, jumbling into a mishmash of something that doesn’t make sense. “You’re lying. The woman you killed was Solange.”
“According to Friedrich, this Solange you keep going on about is the result of the trauma you suffered after the death of Jude and the abuse of your nanny. A hallucination.”
I didn’t imagine her. I couldn’t have. She was real. What she did to me was real. I felt everything. I shake my head, but even as I prepare to argue with him, flickering images pass behind my eyes. My mother never acknowledging Solange in the room. The staff giving me strange looks as we’d stroll by together. The way she’d disappear from the castle for days, and show up only when I was upset, or stressed.
No. I couldn’t have imagined her. How could I have imagined something that felt so real?
“I won’t let you make me out to be crazy. So, you can throw me back into that place. It wasn’t a hospital!”
“It’s the institute where we meet. A number of studies are carried out there, but Freidrich thought you might be more comfortable having your first session here.”
“They fucking tortured me there!”
“Friedrich wanted to study the nature of your hallucinations. To see how they might affect what we’re trying to accomplish. Through these delusions, you put yourself at risk, many times over. Killing yourself accomplishes nothing, Lucian. It proves nothing.”