Page 87 of Callous Shot

“You ruined the cake. Do you have any idea how much it cost? You selfish, clumsy boy!” His hand flew out, catching my cheek, and I gasped as white-hot pain bloomed across my face. “Get out of my sight,” he boomed, and I half ran, half staggered towards the door, desperate to be alone so the tears that were choking me could fall. If I dared to cry in front of him, that was asking for him to hit me again.

I ran blindly through the house, ending up in the tiled mudroom, where we kept all the wellies and outdoor equipment. Pulling myself up onto the padded bench in the corner of the small space, I curled myself up as small as I could and finally let my tears fall. It was safe to cry here. No one could see me. No one could hear me.

No one ever came.

Much, much later, when it was dark outside, I crept out of my hiding place, back through the echoing hallways towards the kitchen. My stomach was rumbling. Hopefully, I’d be able to steal some food now that the chef was gone for the day.

Voices came from the open door up ahead, and I stopped, holding my breath. My parents were in my mother’s office.

“…I know, Cressida. He’s a selfish, ungrateful boy,” my father murmured, and something sharp hurt me inside, like someone was in me, stabbing my heart with a big knife.

“He ruined the cake. I had that especially ordered from the Cotswold bakery the royals use.” My mother sniffed.

“We can order another for Nolan’s birthday. He would appreciate the efforts you went to,” my father soothed, and I bit down on my lip until I could taste blood, hot tears filling my eyes all over again.

My mother sniffed again, her voice coming out shaky. “He would never disappoint us. I wish he had lived instead of Lincoln.”

“So do I,” my father said.

Tearing myself out of the memory, I strode into the corridor and entered my own bedroom, rubbing at my stinging eyes. Sinking down onto the bed, I dropped my head into my hands, my throat working as I attempted to get myself back under control.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone, scrolling to the social media profile of the person I’d recently admitted that maybe I didn’t hate after all.

@linkb_flames:

you awake?

Rising to my feet, I crossed to the window, cracking it open and letting the chilly night breeze in. The air in the room was stale—I doubted anyone had been in here for months, except for the cleaners giving it a quick dust.

My phone buzzed on the bed, and I dived for it, throwing myself onto my back and resting my head against the mound of pillows. The lump in my throat dissolved as I read the message, a strange peace filling me as I pictured Daniel lying down, smiling at his phone as he attempted to provoke me.

@danhfirestarter:

can’t sleep either? or are you too busy daydreaming about me? so sweet. you should’ve stayed although you would’ve been waiting a while. the debrief took forever but suffice to say we got some good info. can’t talk about it but will catch you up in person

oh wait are you watching the hockey? did you see that fight just now? they could learn something from me and you

My lips tugged upwards. I got why he was paranoid about mentioning anything that could potentially be incriminating over social media, so I concentrated on his second message. I liked the fact that he was watching the game and thinking of us.

I liked it too much.

@linkb_flames:

you’re deluded if you think i’m daydreaming about you. i’m not watching it, gonna catch the highlights tomorrow. what happened?

We messaged back and forth for over two hours, Daniel giving me a play-by-play of the game, peppered with insults and lines he probably thought were witty. Eventually, the conversation drifted into deeper territory, and sometime during that second hour, a realisation struck me. Daniel knew me better than anyone else.

Another realisation hit me then, and I quickly tapped out a new message.

@linkb_flames:

we should swap phone numbers

@danhfirestarter:

wow you do really like me. yeah we should do that but we should keep texting here. it’s our thing

I smiled. He was right. We had over two years of messaging history here. More, in fact—our interactions went back to our early teenage years, but we’d only started interacting on a regular basis when we’d been forced into our uncles’ schemes.