Drown Me In Sin

Prologue

RAPHAEL - 11 YEARS OLD

Blood covers the wall in my parent's bedroom, as if someone walked in and threw an entire can of red paint over the bed, the headboard, and the wall.

Except it's not paint, because there are chunks in it. And my mother's body lies off-center in the bed, her head—or what's left of it anyway—hanging off the side.

I should move, but I can't make my feet go.

"What are you doing? Call someone!" Marco squeezes past me into the bedroom, rushing over to her body. He grabs her wrist and tugs on it, tears streaming down his face.

But I know.

She's not coming back.

It's not until I hear Elena running up behind me that I'm finally able to tear my feet from where they're planted in the doorway. "Where's Mommy?" she cries, but I can't let her see.

I practically have to tackle her to keep her from getting past me to the bedroom, where Marco is still screaming and crying for someone to help. Elena scratches at my arms, kicking and screaming while I shove her head against my chest to make sure she doesn't see.

By the time I carry her downstairs, she's pulling on my hair and biting me. I say nothing. I'm not sure I can speak anymore, but I can do this.

Luca's still at piano practice.

Marco is upstairs already.

But I can do this. I can keep her from ever seeing what I just saw.

The front door opens and dad walks in, whistling while he hangs his coat on the hook by the door. His whistling stops when he turns to see us. "Raphael," he snaps, "what have you done to your sister?"

I stare forward, letting Marco's yelling from upstairs be my answer. The color drains out of Dad's face and he drops his briefcase, bounding up the stairs four steps at a time.

They're loud after that. Dad screams, Marco cries, and eventually policemen come inside, guns strapped to their hips and notepads in their hands.

"Was there anyone else in the house?" one of them asks me. They took Elena—pulled her out of my arms and took her somewhere. I stare at the floor, aware of nearly a dozen cops in the living room but not really seeing them.

"Hey, buddy." A female cop this time. "I know it's hard, but I need you to tell me what you saw tonight. Was the door locked when you came home?"

Marco has blood all over his arms. He sits across the room with two more cops, wrapped in a shiny blanket while they try to make him drink water. He's not crying anymore, but even from here, I can tell he's shaking.

"Raphael." Dad snaps, pushing the cops out of the way so he can grab my face. "Snap out of it, son." He slaps my cheek, and my eyes focus on him. His dark eyes look angry, not like hers.

She had kind eyes.

He sighs and puts his hands on my shoulders. "You're a fighter, my boy. You're a fighter. Now, tell these nice officers what you saw."

It doesn't sound like my voice, but I tell them what they want to know. Mom was late, but that happens sometimes. Marco and I picked up Elena from school so she wouldn't get lost. We walked home. The door was unlocked. I went upstairs to find her.

"Did you see anyone while you were walking home?" The female cop is short, her blond hair tied back in a slick bun. I shake my head, and she takes notes.

My hands are still. Across the room, Marco's shoulders shake while he cries into the tissues. I don't know where they took Elena, and Luca will be home soon. Do we have to tell him? Or do the police do that?

Dad walks into my view and clears his throat. "That's enough, officer. We need some family time, now."

"Mr. Mariano, we really—"

"I said that's enough." Dad doesn't have to yell to get his point across. He towers over her, hands in his pockets while she looks him up and down, struggling to find the words. His suit has blood stains on it, but he looks calm.

They argue for a while, and I take it as my dismissal. Moving to sit by Marco on the bench by the door, I clasp my hands in my lap and stare forward, trying to focus on little details of the room; the way the clock ticks against the wall by the fireplace. The scrape on the wood floor where Marco and I knocked over a big glass vase two years ago.

I feel numb by the time Dad crouches in front of us, a hand on each of our shoulders. "We're going to a hotel, boys." His hands move to our faces, and he kisses us each on the top of the head before forcing us to stand. "Go get your things."

"Where's Elena?" I ask, searching the room for her. Where did they take her?

Dad looks over his shoulder, kneeling in front of me. "She's in the car. Now go get your stuff."