Bloodstained Redemption

Chapter 6

THE REAPER

Knowing she was at the bar tonight kills me. Knowing she's dancing for every man in there kills me.
Not because I like her, but because she puts a bad look on my name.
She's working for me. She's my son's babysitter for Christ's sake. She should be at my house, in my son's room, putting him to bed. Not in a strip club, in a pathetic excuse for an outfit, dancing for random men.
   I don't know why I care. I don't.
   But she is mine. Or at least she's under my employment. I groan and roll my neck, the satisfying popping sound bringing me little pleasure. I hate her. I flirt because I know it pushes her buttons. Harper Miller could only wish I actually loved her. I never will.

Theo is at a sleepover tonight with his day care. I was reluctant, but after doing a deep dive into every child's entire family, background and records, as well as the teacher's and parent's, I deduced it was suitable enough and allowed him to go. I love my son, and as much as I want to protect him and keep him from all the dangers of the world, ones he'll hopefully never have to worry about, I also understand that I need to let him and let him enjoy his childhood. That won't stop me from investigating into every single person Theo has contact with, nor will it stop me from putting a bullet in their heads, had they touched a single hair on his.
   I sigh, not really knowing what to do with myself. My investigation to finding Maria's final killer has been stuck at a dead end. It's been pissing me off for days now.
   The house is quiet. I'm sat drinking a glass of whiskey, not finding peace in the eery silence. It's too quiet.
   I'm even starting to miss Harper's grating voice, berating me for calling her Angela. I feel... lonely.

                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's been a week. Harper has been working for me for a week.
And I already want her dead.
   She is currently in MY kitchen, complaining about the food, or 'lack of', in my cupboards and fridge. There is food, but what she is complaining about is the lack of 'good' food.
   "Where is the sugar, chocolate, cookie dough?" she exclaims. Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, a few strands falling down her face, framing the delicate diamond shape. Angela wears a tight black body suit, her jeans hanging low on her hips, showing the small star tattoo she has on the bone. I almost want to ask what it means, but then I remember I don't care.

The banshee continues to shriek about my food choices.
"It's called a healthy, balanced diet, Angela." I return, drolly. I'm bored of this conversation.
   It's like listening to a dragon, as she continues to spit fire about the food she's going to bring with her next time. At least Theo is finding some form of entertainment from this back and forth.
   He loved the sleepover and told me every detail, down to the last cup of warm milk, all morning of Sunday. And I listened to every word and would do so again and again. I loved seeing him happy and my heart melted knowing he enjoyed it.
   Sometimes I worry I'm not doing a good job, or I'm too harsh and hard on him, or that I'm not a part of his life enough. Maria seemed so perfect and well-adjusted to being a parent straight away. She always knew what Theo needed, when he needed it. She always knew what he liked, disliked – from his favourite colour to his least favourite pair of socks. I, on the other hand, always feel like I'm doing something wrong. I know that he doesn't like the dark, since one time we accidently left the window on draft when he was two years old and flies flew into his room and wouldn't leave him be. That was my mistake.
   I know that he loves dinosaurs and had a teddy one, that Maria gave him when he was born. It's as if she knew that he would love them. I didn't. I was too astound to be seeing him out in the world for the first time, in my wife's arms, looking as beautiful as she was.
   I need her help. Or someone's. Sometimes I feel I'm not fit to be a father and that it should've been me instead of maria who had died.

"RHETT!" Harper's voice draws me out of my... episode.
"Yes, Angela?"
"Pancakes are ready."
She lays out three plates, stacking four blueberry pancakes, soaking them in maple syrup and serving them to Theo. His eyes light up immediately, and the sight warms my heart. Harper then serves me two and another two for herself. We eat in silence, my eyes never leaving Theo's happy face as he devours the pancakes, syrup sticking around his mouth. This feels like a family meal.
   I hate it.
   She is not my family; she shouldn't be making me feel how I did with Maria.
   I know I sound like jaded asshole, but Harper Miller is. Nothing more than a nanny to me.
   This will be last time she eats at my table.