S H A D E S

My heart. My soul. My love.

                  

Within an hour the police were on Ronin property. Very soon thereafter, Percy Thornton was escorted into the back of a squad car, dried blood on his face, tears in his eyes, and cuffs around his fragile wrists.

My father, always the man to thrust up a hand and admit his short comings, embraced Tristan in a firm, clasping hug of grief and gratitude. The two of them slipping away for a more hushed, private conversation in my father's study.

Exhausted, emotionally drained, I returned to the guest house, stripped off my dress, slid into the shower. And wept. Wept for my blind stupidity. Wept for all the years Nate suffered in silence.

A kid. Just a kid. I might not have particularly cared for Percy, but I'd trusted the man. We all had. And now to know the sordid truth, as Nate wove through the entire ordeal for the police, both mother and father locked at his side, united in fierce love for their son, I was ruined. A mess.

My heart bled. My soul shattered. Every inch of me hurt. And worse, I felt dirty. Dirty for every touch, hug and caress, knowing what he'd done to my nephew, sickened me to my very bowels.

"Laura." Slumped on the tile, I lifted my head from my knees. Tristan stood in the doorway of the bathroom, his expression grave but tender. He pressed an arm against the jamb; shirt cuffed at the elbows, the top buttons undone and heavy lines of fatigue carved under his eyes.

"You're still here," I said, swiping hands across my face, cleaning up the mess of tears.

"I am." Entering the bathroom, he reached a hand into the shower, turned off the heavy rain of steaming water. "Let's get you dry," he said, holding out a hand. "I've got some explaining to do."

Wrapped in the warmth of a fuzzy robe, hair combed and still damp, I sat on the edge of the bed as Tristan leaned against the large, wide window overlooking the open paddocks. The air glimmered a dusky blue of pre-dawn, sunrise only an hour away.

"I told you about Ailish," he began, voice distant. Far away with memory. "My sister. My little sister. So tragically and needlessly had taken her own life."

I swallowed hard, running my cold hands over my thighs. "You'd said her death was your fault."

His head lowered, gold hair spilling around him. Shielding him from me. Tristan lifted a hand, swooped his fingers through it, pulling that veil back-away, as if to show me that in this moment there would be no barriers. No hiding. Only truth.

"She was seventeen. I'd never know anyone with so much to offer the world. Such a large heart," his own pressed over his chest. Held there. "She worshipped me. God knows why, but she did. And I was stupidly more concerned with other things. More important things." A pained smile broke his face, like a crack in a mirror.

"I should have seen it. I should have paid more fucking attention and seen it."

"What?"

"That she was suffering. That she was breaking." He sighed heavily. Shoulders weighed down with responsibility and blame. "I was away in university when things got really bad. It was my uncle. My actual blood relation who was the culprit. Apparently it all started during those long summers we'd stayed there as children. Caring for the horses."

My heart clenched. Seized. "The horse farm," I whispered. He nodded.

"It's why my father sold the place. I didn't know it at the time, but as I got older I realized it was his way of attempting to banish my sister's ghosts. To slay her demons. Had he done so while she was still alive, perhaps he would have succeeded and she'd still be here. Alive. We'll never know now."