SWNOVELS Vicious Hearts: Chapter 24
“You must be Una.”
When last we spoke, Sister Angela heard me at my absolute worst—over the phone, when she confirmed that Finn was dead. I might still be clenching my hands into painfully tight fists to stave off the emotion this time, but I’m not falling apart at the seams now as we meet face-to-face for the first time.
She smiles as she steps out from behind her desk in the slightly cluttered but quaint little office of Hope House, the halfway home for the at-risk and in need on Staten Island.
Where Finn died.
“I’m Sister Angela. We spoke…” she smiles sadly and shakes her head as she takes my hands in hers. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”
I force a painful smile, nodding. “Thank you.”
Cillian remains like a rock behind me, one hand on the small of my back.
“So many of God’s children come through these doors,” she sighs. “But I have to say, there was something very, very special about your bother. He was a good soul.”
“He was the best,” I murmur quietly.
She winces. “I’m afraid, since it was so long before we even knew he had family, his few belongings have already been donated to those in need.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s fine. It’s not why I’m here.”
She nods. “All right, dear. I can show you where he’s buried, or I can just tell you the plot number and you can make you way there yourself, if you like.”
“We can go ourselves.”
Without thinking, I reach back and slip my fingers into Cillian’s—as if I need something solid and real to hold on to right now.
He holds tight and doesn’t let go.
“You’ll find him in row M, number thirty-four.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, I…” She blushes awkwardly. “There is one thing of Finn’s I held on to. It’s not exactly policy, but I couldn’t just throw it away. And a part of me always hoped that someone would come for it one day.”
She bustles back to her desk, opens a drawer, and rummages around inside before pulling out a notebook of some kind.
No, a sketchbook.
My eyes tear up as she smiles and hands it to me.
“He was so very good at drawing.”
I smile a crooked, sad smile. “He always loved to, when we were kids.”
“He really was good. I don’t know when you last spoke. But he used to talk about becoming a tattoo artist one day.”
A tear slides down my cheek as I open the pages, flipping slowly through truly incredible pencil sketches and ink drawings of tattoo ideas: everything from hardcore biker stuff, to gorgeous floral designs, realistic animals, and some really incredible free-hand lines of text—mostly lyrics from favorite songs of his.
I pause, choking slightly when I come to a stunning, full-page design. At the bottom of the page, in his handwriting, it says “for Lunatic.”
His nickname for me.
The design is…unreal. It’s intricate, and complicated, and full of delicate lines and dot-work shading. It’s so “me” it hurts. And every single part of the composition is significant.
The main focus is waterlilies, from my love of Monet’s works. There was a traveling exhibit once that came through LACMA—the Los Angeles County Museum of Art—that we decided we had to go see. Somehow, we panhandled and pickpocketed enough cash to take a cab out to the museum and get tickets, even though it meant walking home after.
The next week, Finn surprised me with another trip back to the museum, just for me, because he knew how much I’d loved the waterlilies the first time.
“How’d you get the money, Finn?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Finn—’
“I got this, Lunatic. I always got you.”
Curled around the waterlilies is a dragon, and I smile when I realize it’s Smaug from The Hobbit, which we used to take turns reading to each other in the group home. Soaring up through the lilies themselves is a Phoenix with intricately-drawn flames and wings spread wide.
That was us—one day, we’d rise from the ashes.
There’s more, too. The half-moon pendant hanging from a chain that was our mother’s and was in that first big house of ours before we had to leave. The Fool tarot card—that’s Finn.
And across the top, surrounded by gorgeous filagree and more flowers, is the exquisitely-lettered phrase “What does not kill you”.
“What doesn’t kill you, right, Lunatic?”
“What doesn’t kill you…what?”
“Makes you stronger. I think that’s how it goes.”
“Right. Or leaves you crippled.”
“Nah. What doesn’t kill you makes you, you.”
“Weird?”
“Better. Unafraid.”
“I like that.”
When I start to cry, Sister Angela squeezes my hand tightly before releasing it as Cillian scoops me into his arms, taking the sketch book from me.
“Thank you very much, Sister.”
Weirdly, I’m doing better when we stop in front of the plain white stone with “Finn Smith” etched in it in black, along with his two dates beneath it. Maybe it’s because I’ve already cried all my tears back in Sister Angela’s office. Or maybe it’s because actually seeing my brother’s grave makes me realize he’s finally at peace.
Cillian’s brought the flowers from the car. I smile, nodding as I take them and lay them on the grave.
“There’s this, too,” he says quietly. “If you want to.”
This time, he’s holding a black permanent marker. When I frown quizzically, he nods his chin at the stone.
“If you wanted to fix the last name.”
I smile and take the pen. Kneeling, I cross out “Smith” and write “O’Conor” above it.
That’s our name. Not that monster’s.
When I stand, my hand slips into Cillian’s.
“Thank you.”
We’re just getting into Cillian’s car when one of the front ground-floor windows to Hope House opens, and Sister Angela sticks her head out of her office.
“Wait! Una!” she calls. “Before you leave!”
I glance at Cillian, who nods. “Go. Take whatever time you need. I’ll be here.”
I bite my lip, smiling at him before I turn and jog back to the house. Inside, I step into her office to find her looking at me curiously, her office phone receiver in her hand.
“Sorry, but they just called as you were leaving.”
My brow knits. “What? Who?”
She holds the receiver up, lifting a shoulder.
“He didn’t say. But he asked for you by name.”
My heart clenches, face paling. “Was…is his voice garbled?” I croak. “Like a weird mechanical sound?”
Sister Angela looks at me like I’ve got two heads.
“No, sweetheart,” she smiles, lowering her voice and covering the phone as she holds it out to me. “He sounds like a perfectly nice man.”
I’m losing it.
I shake my head, smiling as relief floods my coiled muscles, relaxing them. “Sorry, that’s not as weird as it sounds if you know the story. But, thank you.”
She laughs. “It’s okay. I’ll be outside, to give you some privacy.”
“Thank you.”
I take the phone, glancing through the office window to where Cillian is leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette. I hold up a finger. He nods as I smile and lift the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, little bird…”
The ground falls out beneath me. It’s like the earth comes to a screeching, terrifying stop, making me want to throw up, or break into pieces, or scream.
Because the voice on the other end belongs to a dead man.
“Who is this,” I choke, my throat closing up as darkness presses down all around me.
My father chuckles.
“How was your wedding, Una?”
The room spins. The color drains from my face as I cling to the edge of the desk, looking right ahead yet seeing nothing.
“This…” I try and swallow. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, but it is, little bird.”
No. NO. NO. NO. NO.
“You’re… You’re dead…”
He chuckles that dark, horrible, rust-edged laugh of his. “Am I, though?”
He’s dead. This isn’t real. You’re losing your mind.
“I always knew you were the strong one, Una. Finn was weak.”
Tears begin to pour down my face as I shake my head violently side to side. Through the blur and the screaming in my head, I turn to look through the window, seeing Cillian suddenly racing as fast as he can for Hope House.
“Stay strong, Una. And stay the course. You’re so close to—”
“YOU’RE. NOT. REAL!” I scream, my voice breaking as I ignore a horrified Sister Angela swinging the door open.
“Wait until the blood starts to flow,” my father’s ghost hisses, just as Cillian crashes past Sister Angela, his face lined and determined.
“Then you’ll see how real I am.”
Cillian yanks the phone away, just as I hear the click of the line going dead. I collapse, sobbing and shaking, as he drops to the floor next to me, scooping me into his chest.
“Una—”
“He’s alive,” I choke.
“What?”
“He’s alive…”
Tears of terror stream down my cheeks as I shudder and curl into a ball against him.
“Una, who—”
“My father.”
Cillian goes still as I lift my tear-streaked face to his.
“My father is alive.”