The Afterlife (Siren Suicides, Book 3)

Chapter 2. Padded Cell

I recoil on instinct but arrest it before closing my eyes, relaxing my facial muscles as much as the gag allows. I'm glad I do because, instead of slapping me, he gently traces the rivulet of tears on my left cheek, from the bridge of my nose to the wetness on the floor. This unnerves me even more than being slapped. I don't want to see his face, but I make myself, never averting my eyes. I see the familiar sight of graying hair pulled away from a strained forehead with an expensive gel, and those raised, questioning eyebrows, groomed with tweezers to perfection. To top it off, framed with almost girlishly curly eyelashes, two big eyes drill into mine. The emotional contrast on his face is incomprehensible, throwing me onto a precipice of terror.

This is my father. Part of him is in me—his DNA, his biological build, his mad, sinister whatever—it makes me who I am. I shudder, mentally noting to look in a mirror, if I manage to live, and see how much of him is really in me, and how much of my mother and grandmother, whose picture I'll have to dig up somewhere to know.

My father hovers his hand over me in a parental impulse to console. The air slowly fills with the chlorinated scent of faucet water, freshly scrubbed skin, and soap. I breathe in through my nose, ready to faint, noting a trace of his favorite cologne, Bulgari for men. Jesus. Even here, on a fishing trawler, he manages to smell clean and manly.

"There, there. Quiet now. So nice to have you back." His voice comes across as soothing, his face blocking the lamp.

I shrink out of habit. My tongue is fat and dry, lips numb and sore. My limbs are still tied into the cocoon with my torso bent, its left side on the floor and my right side up—a nice target for his shoes, to be kicked and kicked.

Whatever it takes, Papa, whatever it takes. Go for it. Feel it. Let out your pain. Something in my eyes must unnerve him.

"You all right?" he asks, to mask it. I know my father that well.

Eat my guts, I want to say. Like you care. Stop this game, for once, and tell me how you really feel. Come on.

His face wavers with a hint of fear, and then it's gone. I smile, if you can call stretching cheek muscles on an already ripping mouth, burning behind tape, smiling.

He leans a bit closer, mouth tight.

"Sorry, I couldn't quite hear you. What was that you said?" His hand is curled over his ear, his favorite way of intimidating me, by asking me to repeat something that is obvious and making me feel like a fool. It doesn't work this time, I ignore it.

Instead, I take deep pleasure in silently going through a repertoire of every single foul word I know, from bastard to asshole to creep, which, admittedly, is not much. I wish I could borrow some of Hunter's cussing; he always swears so deliciously sharp. My throat still wouldn't budge, but I think he sees the poison in my glare because he takes his hand away and stands up. Good, stage one complete. I manage to stretch my lips a hairline more, smiling.

Now I notice he's dressed in a suit, immaculate as always, with a cashmere scarf carelessly draped over his shoulder as if he's about to depart for an outdoor opera performance somewhere in Italy.

He looks out into the distance, through the wall, focusing on something miles away from the cell we're in.

"My dear, Ailen, I need to tell you something important, and I apologize it has to happen in this...fashion." He glances at me, indicating my position on the floor.

"It seems as if my other attempts to explain why I'm doing this have not worked, which is a pity. We both know that I've tried, multiple times, over the last several days." I strain my neck to keep my head tilted up so that I can see him.