“He’ll back off,” Arden clips.
“The fuck I will!”
Arden narrows his eyes at Carrick. “You will back the fuck off.”
“You actually trust her?” Carrick asks in disbelief.
“I trust that she wants her freedom, and the only way she’s going to get that is if she fulfils her debt. She can’t get off this island without us, and she won’t until she’s done.”
Cyn nods, briefly catching my eye before writing another message.
You let me work. You give me space to do that, and you resist the urge to hurt me. Those are my terms. If you break them, I will do what you so desperately want to do, she warns, glaring at Carrick.
“Yeah, and what’s that?” he taunts back.
I’ll end my life, so you don’t have to.
Carrick’s black eyes narrow on Cyn. “You don’t have it in you.”
Don’t I? she writes, and then with dignity born from a woman who has endured suffering and survived, she returns her attention back to her work and ignores us all once more.
3
Cyn - fifteen years old
“So you’re our study partner?” the black-eyed boy sneers, a smile curling up his face like some demented clown as he drops down into the seat opposite me.
“This is Carrick O’Shea,” Dr Lynch says, giving the boy a warm smile as he pushes his glasses up his nose and addresses us both from the head of the table, situated in his office on the far side of the campus. “And this is Cynthia O’Farrell.”
“I know who she is,” he responds, folding his arms across his chest as he stretches his long legs out under the table and studies me just like a hawk might its next meal.
He’s wearing a thick, black, cable-knit sweater and dark blue jeans, and looks every inch the deviant Lorcan warned me he would be. I try not to flinch as his gaze trails over my body, taking in my grey hoodie and loose jeans. There’s nothing remotely sexy or attractive about my outfit, but the thoughts running through his mind are easy to interpret.
“I hope you’ll be respectful and welcome Cynthia into the school with grace and kindness.”
“Of course, Doc, we wouldn’t have it any other way.”
His voice is as lyrical as Arden’s and Lorcan’s but it has an edge that speaks of dark deeds and deviousness. I don’t like it. I don’t like him.
“Good,” Dr Lynch says, jotting something down on his notepad.
Carrick’s smirk, and the obscene way he pumps his fist when Dr Lynch isn’t looking, tells me that he hasn’t got an ounce of grace or kindness in his body, just like his friends. He wants me to react to his lewd behaviour. I don’t. I’ve become adept at ignoring people, Carrick is no different.
Dr Lynch looks at his wristwatch. “Where are Arden and Lorcan? I can’t start this session without them.”
“On their way over. Ms Polithy is having issues with her… pipes,” Carrick replies, the innuendo completely lost on Dr Lynch. “She needed a helping hand.”
“Oh yes, this building is very old. Always a pipe bursting and in need of repair,” he responds happily. “I’m glad that they’re choosing to listen to my advice and actively seeking to put their newly acquired skills to the test. I knew that the practicality of a plumbing course would help to focus their minds. They both need to engage their hands and their brains in order to get the best out of their therapy.”
“Oh, yes, they are certainly putting their new skills to the test,” Carrick replies, hiding the salacious glint in his eyes behind a swathe of brown hair.
Whilst I wait for Dr Lynch to catch on, I can’t help but wonder if he really is that stupid or if he’s choosing to ignore Carrick’s very obvious, very disturbing, innuendos because confronting them would mean acknowledging that the pair are probably having sex with a teacher right now.
“And what about you? Are you enjoying your singing lessons? You have a very expressive voice, and it’s a useful tool to channel unwanted emotions and spin them into something positive.”
Singing lessons? It takes a great deal of self-control to hide the smirk desperate to unfurl from my lips. Somehow Carrick notices my glee, despite doing my best to try and hide it, and I make a mental note to stand in front of the mirror later, replaying this moment so that I can practise schooling my features.
“Why the fuck did you bring that up?” Carrick grinds out, glaring at me, and earning him a disappointed look from Dr Lynch.
“There’s no need to be so defensive, Carrick. As study partners and more importantly, therapy friends, we need to learn how to share our…”
WAIT WHAT? Therapy friends?
I stand abruptly, my chair falling backwards and hitting the wooden floor causing Dr Lynch to jump a little in his seat.
“Goodness, Cynthia, whatever is the problem?” he asks, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, his kind hazel eyes brimming with concern where Carrick’s are filled with vicious amusement.
Is he serious? What’s my problem? My problem is that my father refuses to allow me to return home until I’m fixed and now I’m supposed to be vulnerable with these arseholes as my therapy friends? No. No way.
I reach for my pad, scrawling a message across it, but before I’ve even finished and can show it to Dr Lynch, Carrick snorts with disgust.
“Didn’t you know? Not only do you get to study with us, we also get to share our deepest, darkest secrets with each other and fuck, you’ve made me want to hear yours!”
“Carrick, language!” Dr Lynch scolds, before turning his attention back to me. “Please, take a seat and let’s discuss this further.”
“Discuss further? She can’t speak,” Carrick points out unhelpfully.
“She has other ways of communicating. Don’t you, Cynthia?”
When I don’t respond, instead choosing to hide my angrily written words against my chest, Dr Lynch rests his hands on the table and waits. The silence that stretches between us is uncomfortable, even for me. Eventually, I release my grip on my notepad, pick up the chair and take a seat as if the world just didn’t implode around me.
“You were saying?” he insists, giving me an encouraging smile that I would appreciate if Carrick wasn’t burning a hole in the side of my face.
No. I shake my head, forcing the muscles in my face to remain relaxed. I don’t want to share my thoughts, at least not the ones I just wrote down in panic and anger. They’ll make me appear weak. I can’t be weak in front of Carrick. So instead of showing Dr Lynch what I actually wrote, I flip the page and write something else.
I thought that my father only agreed to one-to-one therapy sessions?
Dr Lynch reads my words, then meets my gaze. “Your father agreed to let experts take the lead on your care, that means allowing us to act accordingly based on our professional judgement. You will still have one-to-one sessions with me, but you will also be expected to take part in group therapy.”
He won’t be happy about this, I write, and for the first time I’m grateful that my father has a reputation.
Dr Lynch leans back in his chair, and says, “I’ve already had a long discussion with Mr O’Farrell. We are in agreement that group sessions are in your best interest. For too long your mutism has acted as a barrier between you and the world. Finding your voice, hearing you speak, that’s your father’s greatest wish, and I wholeheartedly believe that these young men will help you to do that.”