Chapter 8
Declan denied it.
For twelve minutes.
Then he got tired.
“Yes.”
One word.
Enough.
We sat in the climbing club after hours.
Same wall.
Same padded floor.
New mat already in place.
Finn was nowhere near the building.
I would not use the scene theatrically with my son present.
“You knew Malcolm wanted control through you.”
Declan looked at the wall.
“I thought I could manage them.”
I laughed.
Same lie every compromised person tells.
Manage the people funding you.
Use them before they use you.
Keep the power and ignore the strings.
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
Before the trust.
Before the forged records.
Before Brielle.
He had been meeting them privately.
Patrick joined later.
“What did they promise?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why?”
Declan’s face tightened.
“Because I should have had the chair.”
There it was.
Finally.
He had waited twelve years to say it.
I was thirty-five.
He was forty-three.
Older son.
Raised beside Patrick in meetings I was excluded from.
Taught routes.
Introduced to captains.
Prepared.
Then our mother died.
And Patrick chose me.
Declan never recovered.
“Did you ever ask why he chose me?”
His jaw tightened.
“He panicked.”
“No.”
I knew the truth now.
Patrick had chosen me because he feared Declan’s hunger for approval would make him easy to manipulate.
Ironically, years later, Patrick joined that manipulation himself.
I told him.
Declan stared.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
My brother laughed.
Bitter.
“So Dad thought I was weak.”
“Dad thought you needed people to tell you that you mattered.”
Silence.
“That isn’t weakness.”
I paused.
“It becomes dangerous when people learn to buy you with it.”
He looked away.
Then I asked the question that mattered.
“Did you tell Brielle to hurt Finn?”
“No.”
I believed him.
“Did you know Patrick would?”
“No.”
I believed that too.
Declan wanted a staged fall.
Not a removed clip.
Not real danger.
Again.
Explanation.
Not absolution.
May you like
He had built the stage.
Other people decided how hard the child hit it.
