Chapter 15 Chapter Fourteen

In this large, quaint room, Thomas felt like a deranged man.Two huge white sofas are placed facing each other, and in the middle is a white table with white objects on it. Even the walls and curtains are white.Opposite him was Moira with her arms folded, her skinny legs intertwined, her thin lips pursed.She sat there very quietly, staring at him, and after a long time said, "I'll tell you all you want to know, and then I don't want to talk about him again." Thomas had thought she would talk about Jamie.He had some excuses ready, ready to blame Mary or mourn his father in mourning.Her opening remarks puzzled him.

"Oh." She gritted her teeth and said, "Ask." He didn't want to know, he hadn't guessed many details, all he was worried about was the consequences, but he said, "What did Dad do wrong?" Moira rolled her eyes, "—you said I could ask any question." "Yes," she said, "that's what I said." She took a deep breath, "He invested other people's money and lost it all." "After the market crashed?" "No." She sighed again. "Everyone is very angry because the investment he sold caused the market to crash."

"what happened?" "It's complicated, Thomas, I mean you can ask me about your father's suicide instead of this—" "I want to know this, I'm watching all the time in the newspapers about it, I need to know what he did, and then I'll ask about other things." She cleared her throat. "Lots of people stop paying their mortgages and their investments fail." "Why did they stop paying?" "Because they're stupid. Now everyone's very angry because your father's company has decided they won't pay." He looked at her, which was obviously a lie to coax children.

"Mortgage rates went up really quickly after two years," he said. "My father knew that and was sure the houses were going to be repossessed. Did you not understand, or did you think I wouldn't?" "How should I put it, the situation is very complicated." Father owns an empire of empty houses, which befits him.Thomas still remembers the scene when they attended the National Gallery, and they stopped in front of Monet: the breathtaking and magnificent beauty rushed towards them like a flowing wall.His father stood behind him and told him the monetary value of the painting.Even at nine years old, Thomas already knew his father was missing the point.

"I mean did you have any issues related to your father's death." Thomas figured something to ask, "Where did he do it?" "On the lawn." She smiled slightly bitterly, acknowledging the importance of the question. "On the oak tree, with a rope." "when?" "At lunch yesterday, it was about 12:30." She stared at him again.Realizing they weren't talking about Jamie, Thomas thought it was time to ask the bigger question: "Why?" Moira lowered her folded arms and took a deep breath. "He left a note. Want to see it?"

Thomas shrugged, though he really wanted to.She reached into the pocket of her slacks, took out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him between her index and middle fingers. Thomas took the note, opened it, and it was a photocopy. "He left you a copy?" "No. The police made a photocopy before they left and they had to take the original." In his father's large, exaggerated handwriting, Thomas read: Thomas looked at Moira, who was sitting calmly on the sofa opposite, watching him.This is Lars, yes.It was the way he was angry, a little drunk, sometimes yelling, sometimes berating her in a low voice.They could both hear his savage voice falling off the paper.

"Are you sure you want me to read this?" She shrugged, blinking listlessly, "The police took the original, they're going to read it, someone's going to leak it, everyone in the country is going to know." Her eyes turned red.Thomas read on: Thomas looked at the back of the paper, which was blank, and looked at his mother, who was crying. "He didn't even mention me." Thomas put the paper on the table. They all looked at this note, the huge letters, the lines of slanted fonts, full of hatred and anger.Lars' rage was so intense that the nib of the pen pierced the paper at the point of the period.

Thomas was the first to start laughing, a short, nervous smirk that flooded his face, and then Moira joined in, laughing and crying, pointing at the note and trying to say through the splashing tears, "You, you, Do you want to have one too!" They laughed wildly, until they couldn't breathe.Thomas stood up, pinched his face, pointed at her and shouted, "Your shriveled vagina!" Moira lay face down on the sofa cushion in feigned shame, still crying and laughing, because he was just like Lars.Thomas looked down at her as if disgusted, still laughing, and said in his father's favorite catchphrase, "Get the hell out of my sight or I'll screw you up and throw you the fuck out of the window!"

Moira coughed, choking on her own laughter, flushed from lying there for so long, but still unable to stop laughing, she stood up and pointed to Thomas' face. "You fucking jerk, let me show you how to be a man." She pretended to slap him hard, because it was too complicated to imitate the behavior that took him to the brothel in Amsterdam. The memory stopped Thomas from laughing, but he wasn't upset.He sat down again, sinking deep into the sofa, and looked at the door leading to the corridor.Both of them were panting and smiling. "He's not coming back," Thomas said curtly.

Moira's eyes widened, as if she didn't quite believe their luck. "I know." She sat back on the couch and ran her fingers through her hair, running through the crunchy gel.She looked young and excited, her breasts heaving. "I watched them put him down," she stared out the window, where the oak tree was, "his...they cut the rope, hugged his legs, and put him...on something like a bed .” "stretcher?" "Stretcher, yes, his hand is down—I jumped!" She imitated a bunny hop, and laughed again, this time at herself. Thomas didn't smile.

"He's not coming back," Thomas said again, silently looking at his hands, realizing that the house was very quiet. He looked up suddenly. "Where's Ella?" Moira's eyes filled with tears again, not joy at all, but panic, and her head swung forward, and Thomas suddenly knew: Ella was dead, his father raped and killed her, crushed her nose, Leave her in the room with her pussy bare.He stood up, and Moira covered her face and said, "Still at school, Thomas—" But Thomas' heart was beating wildly, and he couldn't sit down with his legs bent.She looked at him with wide, wet eyes. "Thomas, I wanted to see you first, because—" She paused, sobbing again into her face, her fingers running through her hair, digging deep into her scalp, and he could see the blood dripping from her nails.When she took her hand away, he could see bloody dashes carved into her scalp. "Thomas, I know sorry isn't enough, I know it's not enough, but when I held that piece of paper in my hand and watched them cut the rope to bring him down, all I could think about was you and how you—" She scratched her head again with her fingers, her shoulders shrugged, and she was silent, like a cat with a fur ball. She sat like this for a long time.When she looked up again, her face was scarlet and wet, with snot running all over her mouth, she wiped it with her hands, her hair stood on end, and she couldn't look at him. "I always knew, Thomas, that I was supposed to protect you, but I didn't. I thought..." Her chest rose, "Apologize," she found a rhythm, and took a breath, "I'm sorry, I know Apologizing isn't enough, but I'll do anything..." Thomas didn't feel anything, the most vivid feeling he felt was a faint surprise that she let him see her cry, let him see her tousled hair.She never came downstairs without makeup on and armed from head to toe in decent clothing.He thought she was drunk, but she wasn't. She looked up at him, no longer buried her chin, no longer pursed her mouth, no longer chagrined or blamed, and looked earnestly as if begging for favor. Moira looked at him like an adult looks at another adult, with respect, love, and sincerity, and she said, "You know, I love you."