Free Thorn Jack by Katherine Harbour Page B

vicious.
    â€œYou’re a guest. Don’t abuse the privilege.”
    His perfect face was a mask over something hungry and feral as he said, “I won’t.” Then, “Say, how did David Ryder like his present? The lovely dead girl?”
    The girl chauffeur didn’t move. She said coolly, “He would have preferred her not dead.”
    â€œWell, Lot stitched her up nice and new and filled her with daffodils. And she wanted it.”
    â€œGet out of my sight.”
    Caliban bowed like an actor in a play, and swaggered away.
    THE AROMA OF BREAKFAST ALWAYS reminded Finn of nights with her mom and Lily Rose. Whenever her da worked late, they’d make omelets or pancakes and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Gigi or something classy and fall asleep on the sofa until he returned. After they’d moved to San Francisco, whenever their da worked past six, Finn and Lily would order delivery—dim sum and cherry Cokes from the Purple Peony or veggie quesadillas and mango smoothies from the Green Knot on Divisadero. They’d watch one of da’s westerns because Lily couldn’t look at their mom’s favorite classics anymore.
    Determined to establish another tradition for herself and her da, Finn had chosen home-cooked meals and was attempting a casserole from scratch, trying to decide whether to watch old TV shows or history specials, when her father walked in. She smiled and gestured like a game show hostess. “Look. I made a casserole.”
    He considered the gummy results on the counter and pushed a hand through his hair. “We’ve been ordering dinner for a while now. Why mess with tradition?”
    She sighed with relief. “I agree.”
    He picked up his phone. “What d’you want on your pizza?”
    â€œHow about Chinese from Fox Lane?”
    FORTY MINUTES LATER, THEY SAT on the porch, cartons from Lulu’s Emporium on the table between them as Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” thrummed through the house. Her da, sprawled in the wicker rocking chair, watched her eat. “Finn . . . do you think this was a good idea?”
    She looked up, wide-eyed. “I like Chinese.”
    â€œDon’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He pointed his chopsticks at her.
    â€œWhat’re we gonna do? Move back? Live with Grandad and his wife?” She didn’t taste the next mouthful of noodles. She didn’t want to go back now. Her strongest memory of San Francisco was of sitting on an ugly sofa, in her cashmere coat, listening to the quiet murmur of conversation around her. It had been an hour after Lily’s funeral, at her grandfather’s house, and she hadn’t moved the entire time, sitting with her hands clenched together, her gaze fastened on a bowl of green-and-pink ribbon candy. The car ride back, in the dark and the rain, was only memorable because Guns N’ Roses’s “November Rain” had been playing on the radio. Her da had quickly switched the station. She’d never been able to listen to that song again.
    â€œFinn . . . we haven’t talked about . . .” He frowned down at his carton, and the pleasant world was suddenly replaced by one of harsh absolutes and bitter ends.
    â€œThere’s nothing to talk about.”
    â€œSerafina.” He never called her that. Serafina was what her mom had named her because it sounded like seraphim, angel. He’d shortened it to Finn for a mythical Irish hero known for his wisdom and bravery, Fionn mac Cumhaill. It was a lot to live up to.
    â€œI don’t see anything to talk about, Da. Lily’s gone. And I’m growing up, so I like things in order now.”
    He drew back, hurt, but she wasn’t going to fall apart pointlessly discussing the details of her sister’s stupid decision.
    Any death of a loved one was a betrayal. But a deliberate death was worse . . . it was