The wanted murderer L.S.

Golden Child.

"Do you ever see your mum?" Louis asked as he peered through a glass cabinet at the dusty pot of ashes in it.

Harry, who was resting on the sofa after picking up no more than five objects replied with a hum and a nod of his head.

"Often?"
"Mn. Twice a week. She babysits the cat, sometimes."
"Ah, that's a lot. I thought you didn't see her."
"Why wouldn't I? She only lives down the road Rosewood Gardens Close-up that way. We walked past the house the other week. It's my childhood home."

Louis stopped examining the pot of ashes in the cabinet and sat in the warmth of the sun shining though the window.
"Why didn't you say so when we were there?"

"You didn't ask."
"I guess not. You talk about your mum as if you don't see her."

"Well, I do." Harry said, rather sharply, "Because I'm the only child she has left."

Louis stopped speaking then, and waited for Harry's feelings to settle.

Harry picked at the loose thread on his sleeve, a strange look of both aggitation and pleasure on his
face,
"Mum's a good person. Jack was something from Hell itself, yet she stood by him despite knowing that he hated her with everything he had. I had outbursts as a child—a bit like your meltdowns-because Jack made my mind run all over the place.
The things he'd do when no one else was around would drive me insane. I'd scream and cry and tear things up. My mum could always calm me. She dealt with Gemma's foul mouth, on top of that.
Imagine a three year old swearing and threatening murder-it's bloody frightening, I'll tell you that.
All of her kids were barmy, none of us reflected the good parental care we got."

Harry bit the thread and put it on the floor beside him. He thought for a moment, a small smile ghosting over his face.

"My other sister," he said, "she was the eldest.
The sane sibling. She was my mother's daughter, through and through. Used to wear white dresses, no matter rain or shine. Young, beautiful, and always smiling. She was the daughter that the whole world loved."

The smile that ghosted on Harry's face vanished in an instant, and those deep green eyes of his began to glisten,
"Poor doll paid the price that."

"Were you jealous of her?" Louis asked.
"No." Harry replied.

Louis, however, had an eye for fine detail. Behind Harry's denial had been the slightest nod of agreement.
"You're a liar." He said, "Quite selfish, actually."

Harry turned his face to Louis. He had a harsh demeanour, but his stare deepened with interest.
"And why would that be?"

Louis thought for a moment, picking out memories, sentences, and facts from each place they were stored in his mind. He took quite a while to do so, and eventually said,
"You don't care about your mother. You care about being her favourite. That's the only reason why you visit her. Ah-and also for Ginger's sake."

"It's a very bold claim to say that I don't care about my own mother." Harry said, a smile of contempt tugging at his lips, "What makes you assume such a thing?"

Louis shifted in the sunlight, holding his hand up and contemplating how that light shone through his fingers.

"The books in your library. That's how I know.

Harry tilted his head, and deep in his chest, his heart began to race.

"Say the eldest daughter is your parents' favourite, and while she's pampered and given everyone's attention-where would that leave you?
Reading books, all by yourself. Book after book after book, until there isn't a single book that you haven't read. Then, Jack comes along, but people are still too focused of the golden child to notice what he's doing to you. Then Gemma's born. She grows up to be just as neglected and jealous as you.
I don't know what happened to your dad."