Me and the Devil

42.

The air in the sunroom still crackles with the electricity of the moment Rafe and I just shared, but the edges of it are already fraying, reality pressing in through the walls of Tannyhill. His hand lingers in mine, warm but restless, his thumb twitching against my skin. His gaze is locked on the framed photograph on the shelf. A younger Rafe, stiff and unsure, standing beside Ward. Both wear squinting smiles from the glare of a summer sun, but even in the picture Rafe looks like he’s trying too hard, shoulders taut under the weight of expectation. I can almost feel the ache bleeding from him now, the way his eyes trace his father’s face like he’s searching for an answer that isn’t there.

The house is quieter than usual, too quiet, until raised voices bleed down the hallway. I tense at the sound of Rose’s sharp tone, then Ward’s thunderous reply. My stomach knots.

Ward opens the door of the sunroom a moment later, his jaw set, eyes flashing. He looks older somehow, lines cut deeper into his face. His gaze passes over me, lingering just long enough to remind me I’m not invisible here, then settles back on Rafe.

“Peterkin is dead,” The words fall flat and heavy, like they’re meant to end the conversation before it can start.

Rafe lurches to his feet, swaying slightly, the high still humming through his veins. “Are the cops…are they coming here?” His voice breaks on the question.

“I told them John B did it,” Ward answers without missing a beat.

My chest tightens. For a moment I forget how to breathe. John B. My friend. The boy who dragged me out on boats and made the endless Carolina heat feel less suffocating. The Pogues are family or they were, once. And now, Ward’s words slice clean through me, once again leaving me caught between two worlds. My eyes dart to Rafe, who’s trembling, fighting his own unraveling. He needs me. And  I know I’ve already chosen.

Ward turns on us, his authority sharp and cold. “I need you to go to your room. Clean up. Take a shower. If anybody asks, you were here all day, working maintenance on the Druthers.” His eyes flicker to me then, pinning me in place. “Both of you.”

My throat feels dry, but I nod. The weight of his command shackles me to this family, whether I belong here or not.

“Rose knows we weren’t here,” Rafe mutters suddenly, his paranoia sparking.

“I’ll handle Rose,” Ward snaps, dismissive.

But that only sets Rafe off further. He starts pacing, his words spilling out quick and jagged, each sentence tripping over the last. “What about Sarah? You didn’t see her in the car,” Rafe gets closer to Ward, running his hands through his hair, “She was flipping out. Sarah has a big mouth, she’s gonna say something. She’s gonna..” Rafe’s breathing is ragged as his anxiety settles in, his eyes wild. “I have a suggestion.”

“Rafe!” Ward’s voice booms through the room, cutting him off. “I don’t need your help right now. I didn’t need it then. I don’t need it now. I just need to think. So please, go clean up!”

The silence that follows is suffocating. I look at Rafe, at the way his shoulders collapse inward, the way his face crumbles under the weight of his father’s rejection. His eyes glisten, and for once, he doesn’t try to hide it.

“You understand, right?” “You understand, right?” His voice fractures, reaching for me first, desperate, pleading. Then he turns to Ward, words tumbling raw. “Why I did it. You were in trouble and I was protecting you. Look at me, Dad. Rafe. Not Sarah, okay? It was me.”

Tears spill down his cheeks, unguarded, childlike. My chest clenches, caught between horror at what he’s done and the undeniable truth in his words. He did it for Ward. He did it because he thought it would finally make him enough.

Ward hesitates, his mask slipping, and then awkwardly steps forward. His arms go around Rafe in a stilted embrace, the kind of hug that feels more like obligation than comfort. “I love you, Rafe,” he murmurs, the words low and almost foreign on his tongue.

Rafe sobs into his father’s shoulder, clinging, desperate. And I stand frozen in the corner of the sunroom, watching the fracture lines spread through all of us, knowing nothing will ever be the same again.