Crème Caramel

Callahan

I don't look at my mother's portrait when I pass it, but turn the corner into a darker corridor. I make my way to my study thinking about what Portia said.

That I have my mother's eyes.

It's such a strange comment to make. Especially from her.

Once inside, I close the door. The desk lamp is on. I set the whiskey bottle down, pull my sweater over my head, and sit before pouring another into a glass Lenore left on the desk. She worked for us before, too, and has been living with her family for the ten years since the massacre. She was one of the few people who knew Antonio and I were alive.

I took three bullets during the attack. Two to my torso, One to my head. They'd mistaken me for a soldier or I'm sure I would be dead now. No execution style killing for me. But I did watch from my place on the bloody marble floor that mom loved so much. I remember how cold it felt, even in the July heat. How that small, inconsequential detail stood out.

My older brother and father were al