Moriarty's Musician

Siding with the Angels, Part 3

Meg's brows snapped together as a horrified look came over her face. "Stolen her innocence? Made her like you?"

"Meg, drop it!"

Meg took a deep breath, wringing her hands as she walked over to him. "She's special, James. You above all people know that. We had hopes that she'd bring some happiness back to the estate and– "

"Happiness?" he spit out. "There's no such thing! Those are your hopes not mine."

Meg stared at him for a moment and shook her head sadly. "Your mother didn't believe that."

Rage filled Moriarty's eyes. "Don't bring her into this!"

"Well, somebody has to!" Meg yelled back, standing her ground.

Moriarty scowled as he walked around his desk and began stacking the newspapers. Meg's expression softened as she studied him through the lens that only she and a select few could see through.

"It doesn't always have to be this way, James."

Meg walked to one of the wing chairs and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from its top. "She sent you away to protect you."

"Protect me? I needed to protect her," he said, his voice shaking.

"No. There was nothing you could do. You were far too young and much too precious to her. She knew sending you away would be the last straw but she was stubborn." Meg watched Moriarty pull his phone from his pocket and tap away as he sat down at his desk. "Much like someone else I know," she added.

Anger darkened his eyes as he looked up at her. "You're always trying to fix me, Meg. I'm lost. Accept that."

"No, you're badly broken," she looked at him sadly, "but not lost." She walked back to stand beside his desk and glanced down at the violin. "Your stepfather was lost and I'm sure he's found a special place in Hell."

Moriarty clenched his teeth. "I told you never to bring him up to me again. He's dead!"

"No, he's not, James, because you're allowing him to live," she countered, conviction radiating in her voice.

Moriarty flung his arm across his desk, sending the newspapers flying across the room. Meg calmly watched him pull out a gun from his drawer and stalk towards her.

"You don't know how many people I've killed, Meg." He stood in front of her and rested the end of the gun over her heart. "I hate you."

"And I love you." She reached up an old, tired hand and touched his face. "Put me out of my misery then, dearest. I go through much worse every day watching you disintegrate with this hatred." She sighed as a tear ran down her withered cheek. "But save a bullet for Annabelle because you're not going to like what she's going to expose in you."

He flinched, then slowly lowered the gun, his eyes gleaming. "Not... any... more," he whispered. He walked back to his desk, picked up his pen and started writing. He didn't raise his head as he waved his hand at her.

"You can go now, but send Sebastian back. We have business to attend to."

Meg shook her head and turned to leave.