The Name I Call Myself by Beth Moran Page B

And I need to sleep for more than two hours at a time, preferably without Kane-themed nightmares.”
    Sam let out a shuddery breath. I understood. Calling Gwynne made it real again. Hearing where he was, or what he was doing, or any other tiny detail made him even more alive to us. Made the monster real.
    â€œIt might be good news.” The tremble in my words betrayed the ridiculous lie.
    â€œWhat, that he’s dead already?”
    â€œOr ill, or rearrested, or has to stay within one mile of wherever he was released from. Or has emigrated to Antarctica. It doesn’t matter anyway. We need to know where he is and if… if he’s looking for us.”
    â€œLooking for me.” Sam swung his legs off the cushion and sat up. The simple action seemed to sap every last ounce of strength in his wrecked body. “I don’t need to speak to Gwynne to know the answer to that question, Faith. You don’t either. He’s looking. And he won’t stop until he finds me.”
    I sat and buried my head into Sam’s shoulder, our bones clattering as we remembered. Bereft, bewildered, traumatized, Sam had testified via video link to a judge and jury about how he had dialled emergency services with shaking hands while in the next room Kane had battered our mother beyond recognition.
    Upon much skilful, gentle questioning from Gwynne, our designated Family Liaison Officer, he also recounted the last words Kane spoke before the police broke down the front door.
    You’re gonna regret this, boy. Keep lookin’ over your shoulder. Don’t matter how long it’s been. As soon as they let me out I’ll be coming for you.
    I’ll be coming for you.
    He was coming.

    I left once April returned, Sam still adamant about not phoning Gwynne. It was entirely possible I wouldn’t be able to track Gwynne down, anyway. She had been young, maybe late twenties, when it happened, and a thousand reasons could have caused her to move on from the Chester police force. I never questioned whether she would remember us, or want to help. Gwynne spent more time with us than was perhaps wise – or allowed – back then. She sent Christmas cards for the first few years, even made occasional visitsuntil Grandma sat her down and explained how seeing her brought it back – the night terrors, the bed-wetting, hours crouching in the back of the wardrobe. Sam’s uncontrollable mood swings.
    I did question if she could help, but I had to do something. Kane was coming, I had no doubt. My ragged, screaming nerves could do with having some heads up as to when.

    The following Thursday, Perry and I were summoned to a family dinner at HCC. Agenda: The Wedding. Chairperson: Larissa Upperton. Other members present: Milton Upperton, Perry’s younger cousin Natasha, Aunt Eleanor, and Hugh, Perry’s cousin, also taking on the role of best man. Perry prepared for the dinner by shaving, tweaking his hair in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes, and donning a suit and tie pre-approved by his mother. As I hurriedly slapped on some lipstick and an olive green shift dress, all the better to hide my pre- dis approved of figure, I contemplated how the Uppertons rivalled my warped family for functionality.
    I had no illusion about whether or not I had been forgiven for the engagement party fiasco. As we entered the dining room, Larissa smiled – a big toothy grin like one of those fish with massive teeth who live in the depths of the ocean.
    Mike, a waiter I used to supervise, brought our drinks, then Larissa called the meeting to order. My in-laws-to-be were not happy about the church, the date, the time, and the bride (they didn’t actually list the last one, but I added it to my mental meeting minutes anyway). Wait – amendment. Larissa was not happy about these things. Milton was not happy because when Larissa wasn’t happy he suffered.
    To his credit, Perry did some deft negotiating. At no