Sullivan Family: BOOK 2

VIII

"Miss Sullivan!" Mr. Finn's voice booms out in the hustle and bustle of students racing out of the classroom. I groan and share an annoyed look with Kieth, Katie and Chelsea. But, happy they aren't being held back, they hastily say goodbye and quickly make their escape. Mr. Finn motions to the table closest to his desk. "Please, take a seat."

I stare at him for a moment, eerily irked that he talks like Ivan, looks like Ivan and seems to be anally neat, like Ivan. My life obviously isn't the movies, but Mr. Finn looks like Ivan's doppelgänger. Mr. Finn raises a finger in the air and walks to his classroom door, closing it, save for a crack. I hastily sit down when he is turning around, hoping he didn't think I was staring at him because he is 'hot'.

Sadly, lots of the girls in my class are like Astrid. Sometimes, they raise their hands to answer questions they don't even know the answer to because they want him to focus his attention on them (which makes them look super dumb and obvious). Some even go as far as asking for extra help after school. It's disgusting. Besides, why would I be interested in someone that looks like Ivan, who, in all sense of the word, is my 'dad'?

"I'm not failing." I say bluntly, and a hint defensively. Lukas and Silas have made sure of that, especially with all my free time being grounded. So, my teacher has no reason to have a sit down with me especially because I behave in class. Ivan has even written in our school papers that we are not to be asked to join any extra curricular activities unless he brings it to the school.

"Oh, no, Miss Sullivan." Mr. Finn rests his tailbone on his desk and crosses his ankles, smoothing his dress pants out with his palms running along his thighs. For being a teacher, he sure has blue collar hands, similar to Ivan, Odin and Levi, as if he grew up on a farm. "I'll wait to discuss until Mrs. Grace arrives."

"What?" I exclaim, jumping out of my seat. I definitely do not need my school therapist seeing me more often than I have to see her. Now that the shock has worn off that Ivan is actually making me see a therapist, an easy answer to his worries comes to mind: why couldn't I just call Ivy, my big sister, and talk to her? Why did he insist on a therapist?

Was it because of the memory? Did I even have that stupid memory at that point? Did Ivan want a trained therapist to help me through trauma I didn't even know I have? Or, is it because he assumed (rightly) that I had found out about Izak Sullivan?

How is it possible that Ivan can't legally talk about him? From what I've gathered, his death was bloody, and with Ivan's dislike of the police force, it must have been a homicide. If Izak is dead (pardon my callousness), then wouldn't the case be over? Unless they didn't find the man who killed him....

If Izak was fourteen years old when he passed away, and younger than Ivy but older than Levi, he had to have passed away around ten years ago. Around the time Ivan took us all in. He said he would visit us when he was seventeen, when our parents already lost custody of us, so it couldn't have been our father beating Izak to death, right? There is a statute of limitations. Is a decade the limit for murder?

Izak's death was bloody... and so was Kolton Gene's. Kolton was a friend of a friend. Izak was a brother. Did the person who killed Kolton kill Izak? Is he starting to haunt our family, again? Circling in, instilling fear?

"Miss Sullivan?" Mr. Finn's voice floats to my ears, slightly warbled because I was too into my thoughts. I clear my throat and sit straighter in my seat, noticing Mrs. Grace sitting on the table next to me.

"Yes, Mr. Finn?" I ask, nervously zipping and unzipping my social studies binder. I hadn't put my papers away neatly, and the zipper gets stuck, so I pull it back and leave it shut.

"We just wanted to discuss your home life." Mr. Finn states, his voice soft. He uses his hands to motion to his own face, where I have ugly, dark purple and yellow bruises on mine from running into Nana and Pops' basement door.