Thy Kingdom Come

“We’re not perfect,” Keegan says, ru

“Why did she buy this place?”

“’Cause she was leavin’ yer da,” Imogen reveals, confirming the blanks I’ve tried to fill in for years. “And she was takin’ ya with her. You were her life, Puck. But leavin’ Co

“But not careful enough,” Keegan adds with anger.

“The day before she…she was killed, she called me. She told me she knew somethin’ that would ruin the Kellys if it ever got out. I believe she thought this was her way out. But she never told me what it was.”

The hair at the back of my neck stands on end. “What’re ya saying then?”

Keegan levels me with nothing but sincerity as he rattles my world forever. “Whatcha think, lad? Yer da is responsible for yer ma’s death. She wanted to leave him and had a secret that could ruin him. What do ya think he’d do?”

I’ve heard him loud and clear, yet I can’t accept what he just said.

This isn’t possible. Aye, my dad never avenged my ma, but he didn’t kill her.

Or did he?

The past sixteen years overwhelm me, and I hiss in a winded breath. The unanswered questions which plagued me night after night…Have I had the answers all along? Has my ma’s murderer been under my nose this entire time?

I think I’m going to be sick.

I don’t want to believe them, but this makes more sense than my da laying down arms and not avenging his wife’s death. He never took vengeance because he was the one who killed her. This story of the Doyles being responsible was merely fabricated to placate the rumors. And to pacify me.

Better I believe our rivals are responsible—who I’ve been raised to hate—than my own father.

I wanted answers. And I got them.

“Who’s D. Morrison?” I ask about the “owner.”

“It’s a friend of ours,” Keegan replies. “We didn’t want yer dad knowin’ we bought the place.”

Imogen sniffles, before turning around and going inside.

“And why did ya? No offense, Grandpa, but that’s awful fucked up.”

He nods, his fight no longer thriving. “This was the last place yer ma was. It’s the only thing we have left of her.”

He realizes what he just said, but it’s too little, too late.

“My uncle Sean was right. Yer not worth knowin’,” I state emotionlessly. “You shoulda been there for her when she was alive. Now, yer holdin’ onto memories instead of her.”

Imogen comes hobbling back out, something in her hand. “We just got ya back. Please don’t go.”

With a wrathful smirk, I affirm, “Y’ve never had me in the first place. Ya could have, but ya turned yer back on me, like ya did my mum. I’m a Kelly. I’ll never be a Foster. And for once in my fucking life, I’m proud of that.”

She nods, accepting my insult because how can she refute the truth?

With nothing further to say, I go to turn, but she offers me the photograph she has in her hand. “Y’ll always be a Foster, Puck. Yer ma’s blood runs through ya whether ya like it or not.”

Accepting the photo, I don’t look at it. Instead, I shove it into my pocket and leave. I don’t bother with goodbyes because I didn’t even say hello. Cian and Rory’s footsteps alert me that they’re following, but I can’t talk to them right now.

I can’t do anything but think about what Keegan said.

“Whatcha think, lad? Yer da is responsible for yer ma’s death. She wanted to leave him and had a secret that could ruin him. What do ya think he’d do?”

Those words haunt me, and I break into a sprint, wishing to escape the pain they bring. But the faster I run, the deeper they cut, and I know only one thing will center my world once again. The gravel kicks up under my feet as I run toward my car, and when I’m within reach, I unleash my anger the only way I know how; the only way I was taught by the monster who murdered my ma.

I bate my fist into the car bo

“Ah, stop it, y’ll break yer hand,” Cian says, attempting to calm me down. But that ship has sailed.

Only when I’m hitting or destroying something do I feel better. However, there is only one person who will be able to stop me ragin’. I need to go home. I need to look my da in the eye and ask him if he killed my ma.

And if he says yes…then I’ll do unto him what he did to my ma.

“Whatcha go

“What I have to,” I reply, lamping the bo

“Ya believe them?” he asks, but that’s the thing—I don’t know who to believe.

With a roar, I kick the tire and finally contest defeat.

Breathless, I dig into my pocket to retrieve the photograph, and although it’s dark, the moonlight allows me to see the image is that of a woman and a wee boy. That wee boy is me.

With bloodied fingers, I bring the photograph closer so I can look at the woman sitting in front of an easel with a set of paints close by. Her blonde hair matches mine in color and so do her eyes. I trace over her kind face, unbelieving this is my ma.

The images of her in my head match this woman perfectly. I didn’t even know I knew her…until now.

I remember her tender voice, singing to me as she rocked me to sleep. I remember her sweet smell; she always smelled of roses. I remember how she shoved me into that wardrobe, protecting me with her life.

I remember…

And I’ll never forget.

Digging into my pocket, I give the keys to Rory. “Well there ya are now.”

He nods, realizing this is far from over.

I want nothing more than to kick open my dad’s bedroom door and beat the truth outta him. But I can’t.

When that happens, and it’ll happen soon, the twins can’t be here. Neither can Fiona. It just needs to be me and my dad because this is between us.

On the drive home, I thought about calling Uncle Sean and confronting him with what I’ve uncovered. But honestly, I am fucking knackered. I need a clear head when I tackle this because I know I have one chance, and one chance only.

The boys left some hours ago, and although they offered to stay, I told them to go home. I can’t be around anyone right now. I can’t even be around myself.

I’ve showered, but I haven’t left the bathroom. I’ve stared at my reflection for hours, hoping to see the resemblances between my ma and me. Her photo is taped to the mirror, and as I stare at her, memories begin to materialize.

I remember bouncing on her lap as she sat in front of her easel, painting colorful images which made no sense to me, but they did to her. Regardless of how unhappy she was, her paintings helped her escape, just as mine do for me.

Gripping the sink, I arch my back, measuring my breathing as I attempt to calm these images racing inside my head.

“Ya need to be quiet. Quieter than a mouse. Okay, my wee son? Promise me.”

The harder I try, the more predominant they become.

“How ’bout a dance, Cara?” one of the men says, walking over to the radio to turn up the song. “C’mere to me.”

Elvis suddenly replaces the deep voice of Ma’s attacker.

Kiss me, my darling…

That song…it’s the song that was playing on the radio.

I scream, slamming my fist into the side of the sink, squeezing my eyes shut. This joyful song is the perfect oxymoron for what horrors the smooth voice of the King was concealing.