Read Online Misjudged (Death Dwellers #3.5) by Kathryn Kelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathryn Kelly
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escaped her, loud in the silence of the graveyard where her mother-in-law rested. K-P, Bailey’s dad. Caroline, Kendall’s sister.
Where the monument for her own father rose at the highest point. It was just a cold obelisk, representing… what ? He wasn’t even in there. Unlike her son with the angels and bronze baby shoes. Meggie knew he was in the ground. All alone.
When she thought really hard, she imagined her daddy at her wedding, sharing their father-daughter dance. She’d not once ever danced with Big Joe. He’d swung her around a few times, threw her up in the air and pulled all types of giggles from her. And she’d never get to dance with Patrick. Sometimes, she’d see a rainbow in the sky, and pretend…Pretend she’d see her son and father, and have no more tears. Despite her despair, she’d smile.
On particularly crazy days, she’d see another little person with reddish-blond hair. She never knew if she looked at a boy or a girl, but she did know it was Johnnie’s and Kendall’s baby. Once or twice, she’d attempted to ask Kendall if she’d ever wondered the sex of her lost child. The first time Kendall had accused Meggie of being insensitive and the second time Kendall had said the baby was gone, so she was focusing on the new one.
Maybe, Meggie had just wanted to think of Patrick not being alone. That his cousin was with him. Or her father. Or his grandmother, the woman he’d been named for. Patricia, Christopher’s mother.
Patricia was with him, taking care of Patrick on Meggie’s behalf. Wasn’t she?
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Meggie doubled over and dropped to her knees, before falling to the ground and curling herself into a little ball. Morning dew still dampened the grass. It was cool against her cheek. Cold even. At the thought, she choked out a wail, digging her fingers into the thick blades, unable to reach the dirt to start digging for her son.
“Megan?”
The sound of Christopher’s voice startled her and she stilled, remembering she had heads or tails wherever she went, unless she snuck away, which she rarely did effectively. Either one of the guys was waiting to lead her somewhere or one of the guys would be there to follow her. Sometimes, two or three guys. She hadn’t seen anyone when she’d left the compound, but they must’ve seen her, followed her, and called her husband.
She turned her face into the damp earth, ignoring Christopher. She didn’t want him to see her like this. It messed with his head. But she just wanted privacy, too, to grieve in peace and not feel like a piece of shit for letting her son die.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
“No.”
She curled herself tighter, wanting to apologize. Wanting to turn back the hands of time so she could make things right. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
Unamused laughter wafted in the air around her. “I should fuckin’ see you however the fuck you is at any-fuckin-time.”
“You have your club to run, Christopher,” she said quietly, sucking back her tears, reigning in her grief with supreme effort.
He crouched in front of her and she studied his boots. There was a scuff on them, she thought idly, reaching out to run her fingers over the cracked leather. When she got a job, the first thing she intended to do was buy him new boots. She’d buy a matching pair for CJ and Patrick. She’d bring them here and tell him how his daddy and big brother had a similar pair.
Christopher’s fingers stroked her head. “How fuckin’ often you come here?”
She bit down on her lip, hesitating. “I haven’t been here in a week,” she finally admitted.
He sat flat on the ground, knees raised, hands resting on them. “You ain’t wantin’ me with you?”
Pulling herself up, she slid between his thighs and rested against his chest, clutching his cut and sobbing until her throat hurt. Until his soft words and gentle strokes reached through her fog. His cheek pressed against the top of her head and
Where the monument for her own father rose at the highest point. It was just a cold obelisk, representing… what ? He wasn’t even in there. Unlike her son with the angels and bronze baby shoes. Meggie knew he was in the ground. All alone.
When she thought really hard, she imagined her daddy at her wedding, sharing their father-daughter dance. She’d not once ever danced with Big Joe. He’d swung her around a few times, threw her up in the air and pulled all types of giggles from her. And she’d never get to dance with Patrick. Sometimes, she’d see a rainbow in the sky, and pretend…Pretend she’d see her son and father, and have no more tears. Despite her despair, she’d smile.
On particularly crazy days, she’d see another little person with reddish-blond hair. She never knew if she looked at a boy or a girl, but she did know it was Johnnie’s and Kendall’s baby. Once or twice, she’d attempted to ask Kendall if she’d ever wondered the sex of her lost child. The first time Kendall had accused Meggie of being insensitive and the second time Kendall had said the baby was gone, so she was focusing on the new one.
Maybe, Meggie had just wanted to think of Patrick not being alone. That his cousin was with him. Or her father. Or his grandmother, the woman he’d been named for. Patricia, Christopher’s mother.
Patricia was with him, taking care of Patrick on Meggie’s behalf. Wasn’t she?
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Meggie doubled over and dropped to her knees, before falling to the ground and curling herself into a little ball. Morning dew still dampened the grass. It was cool against her cheek. Cold even. At the thought, she choked out a wail, digging her fingers into the thick blades, unable to reach the dirt to start digging for her son.
“Megan?”
The sound of Christopher’s voice startled her and she stilled, remembering she had heads or tails wherever she went, unless she snuck away, which she rarely did effectively. Either one of the guys was waiting to lead her somewhere or one of the guys would be there to follow her. Sometimes, two or three guys. She hadn’t seen anyone when she’d left the compound, but they must’ve seen her, followed her, and called her husband.
She turned her face into the damp earth, ignoring Christopher. She didn’t want him to see her like this. It messed with his head. But she just wanted privacy, too, to grieve in peace and not feel like a piece of shit for letting her son die.
“Go away,” she mumbled.
“No.”
She curled herself tighter, wanting to apologize. Wanting to turn back the hands of time so she could make things right. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
Unamused laughter wafted in the air around her. “I should fuckin’ see you however the fuck you is at any-fuckin-time.”
“You have your club to run, Christopher,” she said quietly, sucking back her tears, reigning in her grief with supreme effort.
He crouched in front of her and she studied his boots. There was a scuff on them, she thought idly, reaching out to run her fingers over the cracked leather. When she got a job, the first thing she intended to do was buy him new boots. She’d buy a matching pair for CJ and Patrick. She’d bring them here and tell him how his daddy and big brother had a similar pair.
Christopher’s fingers stroked her head. “How fuckin’ often you come here?”
She bit down on her lip, hesitating. “I haven’t been here in a week,” she finally admitted.
He sat flat on the ground, knees raised, hands resting on them. “You ain’t wantin’ me with you?”
Pulling herself up, she slid between his thighs and rested against his chest, clutching his cut and sobbing until her throat hurt. Until his soft words and gentle strokes reached through her fog. His cheek pressed against the top of her head and
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