Page 19 of Craving Sin

“What the fuck is this?” I ask, but I know. How could I not when it’s one of my favorites. I just don’t expect him to be listening to it.

“They’re called orchestras. Maybe you’ve heard of them, but this specifically is Mozart’s Symphony No. 40.”

It feels like the air is pulled out of my lungs, giving me a breathless feeling. That’s exactly how I would describe the music, but that’s not directly what it’s from or why I’m feeling it.

I never expected to fall in love with classical music. Moira played piano and taught Cillian, but something about the music called to me, hit me on a deeper level, and for over twenty years, it’s been what I’ve listened to to help get me out of my head, to be transported somewhere else because of the full range of emotions an orchestra of music can make you feel. “Why are you listening to it?” I snap, as if the answer to that question isn’t obvious.

“Because I like it.”

“Turn it off.”

“No.”

Why does it matter so much that he clearly likes it too? That this is a thing, my thing, that Abbott happens to enjoy as well? “Turn it. The fuck. Off.” I stress each word, making sure he can’t miss the warning in my tone. With a sigh, Abbott leans forward and does as I say.

The silence left behind feels loud enough to swallow me whole, but it’s better than the alternative, better than having this man who is making me do things I shouldn’t do, share something I love with me.

He quietly drives, following my directions for an hour and a half into rural New Hampshire, until eventually, he’s pulling down a long, gravel driveway, tucked into an army of trees, stopping at the only house around for miles.

It looks smaller than I remember—one story, two bedrooms. It’s white, but looks dirty and worn. The porch wraps around to the back and could use some TLC. There’s a firepit behind the house—small, brick—where I once roasted marshmallows because Moira loved making s’mores. I shake those thoughts from my head. I don’t have space for them right now. I’ve gotten myself into a really fucked-up situation that has the ability to bring us all down.

I use the app on my phone to open the garage, instructing him to pull in.

“Get the fuck out of the car,” I snap at the doc, suddenly frustrated.

He frowns, then pushes the button to turn off the car. “Can I grab my medical bag?”

I nod, both of us getting out. I watch him as he grabs the bag, keeping the gun in my hand. There are shelves on the walls, and I open one of the metal toolboxes that doesn’t contain your everyday kind of tools, plucking a pair of handcuffs out. Always be prepared for anything. It’s what I was taught and what I tried to teach Cillian. What a shitty lesson for a father to pass down to his son.

Like most of our properties, the door lock has been replaced with a keypad, so we don’t have to keep keys for everyone. I press the code in, push the door open, and signal for the doc to go inside.

He does, setting the bag by the door, then looking around. We’re in the kitchen with the dining room to the left, the living room to the right. It’s one huge open space with a hallway on the other side of the living room, leading to the two bedrooms.

“Nice place,” he says.

Ignoring the pain in my arm, I hook one of the cuffs around the doc’s right wrist—I don’t want to use his name—then the other to the old metal heater beneath the window by the table, then pull a chair over. I pat him down, making sure he doesn’t have another phone or anything else on him—something I probably should have done earlier. “Sit.”

“Is this necessary?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he does as I say. I get a bottle of water from the pantry—the house is stocked with water and dry foods, but the fridge will be empty—and hand it to him.

“I’ll be back.”

He looks away in an almost pouting way, but not one that’s childlike or spoiled—like he’s angry, contemplating, maybe even silently plotting my demise.

Good for him.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“If I could reach something, I would.”

I smirk, again noticing his fire, before going to the porch and immediately calling Conan. Despite the early hour, he answers quickly, sounding awake. “What’s wrong?”

“I fucked up,” I reply, nothing but silence greeting me.

“I’ve never had you say that to me before. What happened?” Conan asks.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. How in the hell do I explain to him what I did? That a ghost of a feeling made me react so erratically.

“Kidnapped the son of our governor.”