“Because you convinced her the Duchess was her mother, when she wasn’t, you fuck. And now the woman’s dead.”

“And now the woman’s dead,” Charlie agrees, slowly nodding his head. He taps his index finger against his chin, appearing to muse over something. “It was pretty shitty of me to do that, I suppose. But this life is a circular thing, if anything at all. The Duchess wanted kids so fuckin’ bad. She couldn’t ’ave ’em, though. And your mother stole Lacey away from me before I even ’ad a chance to get a look at her. So I thought it prudent to take Lacey away from ’er in the end. Give her to the Duchess.”

“The Duchess is dead. My mother’s dead. You can’t seek revenge against the dead, Charlie. You sure as fuck can’t make up for your failures as a human being by giving a dead woman a fake daughter, either.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Zeth, my boy. I firmly believe in an afterlife, and I firmly believe your mother is watching down on ’er kids. So she can definitely hurt over me fucking with what Lacey believes. And she can definitely ’urt because ’er precious boy knows she was a fucking prostitute. I took everything from ’er. I made it so neither of ’em could work. Not a single person your parents knew would ’elp ’em for fear of what would ’appen if I found out, you see. I made it so there was only one option left open to her, and I made fucking sure it ruined your mother’s marriage.” He grins. “Exactly ’ow I wanted it. That was before I knew she was pregnant with my kid, of course, but still. All’s well that ends well, right?”

I have no idea what kind of shape I’m in—I’m assuming bad, since I was thrown so far in that blast—but that doesn’t matter. If I die trying, I’ll make this man pay for the things he’s done. The things he’s said.  But first, I need to know the truth.

“You’re not my father, are you?”

Charlie gives me a cold, stony look. He reaches inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket, draws out a small, silver vial, and proceeds to unscrew the cap. I know what’s inside it. He tips some fine white powder out onto the back of his hand, holds it to his nose, and inhales sharply. “I did my first line of coke the day the Duchess came ’ome and told me her best friend was knocked up. I was so fucking angry. That was the first time I gave the silly cow a slap, too. A day of firsts all round.” He grins at me like he’s telling me a funny joke. The drugs do this to him. He acts like he’s happy, like the buzz is still enough to lift him, when all it’s doing is making him angrier. More sour. More aggressive. More vile.

“The Duchess came bouncing into the room, all hopped up on her good news, babbling about how Celia and Paul were gonna have a baby. Celia and Paul. Celia and Paul. Celia and motherfucking Paul. He wasn’t wrong, y’know. I really did ’ate that fucker.” Charlie does another bump. This time he doesn’t even pretend to smile.

“That was also the first time I’d ever been jealous of another man. I had more money than anyone else I knew. A big fuckin’ ’ouse. I ’ad everything I thought I needed, but then along came your fuckin’ mother with all that curly blonde ’air and that smile that seemed to light up the world, and I wanted ’er. And I couldn’t have ’er because of Paul. Because she didn’t fuckin’ want me. And then you came along, and I saw how fuckin’ happy you made her, and I hated you. You were supposed to be my son. But you weren’t. You were the glue that made them stronger.” He points an accusing finger at the screen, where my mother is picking me up from the ground, prying plucked grass stalks out of my fat little hands.

It hits me with the weight of a twenty-pound bowling ball to the chest. He’s not my father. Charlie really isn’t my father. A cold sweat prickles at my skin, my stomach twisting; the relief is just too great. Better my father be a dead man I can barely remember than this piece of work. “So you lied about, Lacey, too?”

Charlie glances sharply out of the corner of his eye, tapping the silver capsule against the top of his leg. “Oh, no, son. Lacey’s mine. I put her in your mother one night. I sent your father, prissy Paul, out of town for me. He needed to go collect some money for me, I told ’im. So off ’e goes, and I go pay a visit to your mother. She was always a little wary of me. I’d waited years by this point, though. Years. And I was done waiting for her to be impressed by the shit I bought her or the money I tried to give ’er. I made ’er let me in. And then I made ’er behave herself while I got what I wanted.”

Fuck the pain in my body. I rocket out of my seat, launching myself at the man. My fists rejoice in pain as I drive them into Charlie’s face, once, twice, and then I’m suddenly being dragged back off him. I lash out; I kick; I holler. I can’t get free. O’Shannessey and Sammy are gripping me by the shoulders—must have been lurking there in the dark the whole time. Charlie straightens himself out in his seat, and then spits blood onto the ground. He dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief that O’Shannessey, ever the fucking suck-up, hands to him.

“That was quite rude,” Charlie tells me. “To be honest, though, I can see why you’re upset about me forcing myself on your mother. But you should know, despite how fiercely she fought me off, I could see in her eyes that she liked it. She always was the sort of woman who pretended to be good, when on the inside she was just begging for it. If I’d met her before she married Paul, she would have been mine. I don’t doubt it for a moment.”