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He couldn’t help the smile when his son walked into the door. His son, the best thing he ever created. As he opened his mouth to greet him, Martin paused, alarm spreading through him as he got a look at the … wild look in his son’s eyes. The desperation. He couldn’t help but frown in concern.
He’s seen Malcolm in all kinds of states over the years. He was there when he was born, fierce and screaming his little lungs out from the moment he discovered he had them. He was there when he blurted out his first word. He had read him his favorites stories until his voice was hoarse and his son had long since fallen away into the world of dreams. He stood fast when his son reported him to that Detective.
While Jessica dressed up Ainsley and paraded her around her high society friends, Martin and Malcolm formed their own bonds. While they never said it, never formally acknowledged it, Ainsley was hers. But Malcolm … that brilliant and curious boy was all his. And that was just fine with him. Ainsley was Jessica’s, hers to mold into the princess of her dreams. He was fine with it. He had his son.
Malcolm was HIS.
Martin had seen his Malcolm angry. Confused. Sick. Healthy. THRIVING. But this … this he had no words for and part of him wondered if this was it. If this was the moment that his son finally broke. That last shred of sanity he’d desperately tried to protect was finally lost.
Malcolm had started ranting … nonsensical words spilling out of him as soon has he had entered the room and Martin tried to keep up, to fill in the blanks but he was muttering utter nonsense at this point. Too worked up to be in any way coherent. Part of him wanted to grab him and hold him close, to take his demons away. The other part, the part of him that liked watching how others worked wanted to see how this played out. See if he could figure out what had worked his son into this state.
And the person(s) who put that desperation, that pain and anguish, on his face would pay. He still had connections. There was more than one way to skin a cat. And they were naïve to believe four walls, a couple chains, and a guard could keep him at bay. It was a testament to his self-control that he had stayed where he was. But the person who hurt HIS boy? There were no chains that could hold him back.
Even if they were against himself.
He always knew there would be a day when Malcolm would remember everything and Martin had hoped it would never come. His son couldn’t handle the memory. That much was true when it happened. Martin wished he could forget. But the mercy he did grant was to try and take those memories from his son. To make him forget, to bury those memories so far down he’d never have to deal with it. If only he could do the same for himself. Despite his best efforts, a part of him knew there was no such thing as a locked box. Someone always held the key.
His Malcolm was strong, that he had no doubt of. But even the strongest could be broken.
His boy had always been different. Too smart for his own good. Too clever and interested in how things worked. He was always people watching. Observing. Cataloging. He was a profiler before he chose it as his profession and it was what made him so good at it. What would have made him be the perfect successor.
He had thought he was careful. That those memories were buried and locked away. But he was wrong. His son was too smart, too strong. Pieces bled through and, while the ultimate conclusion was correct, his son had gotten the details all wrong. In all his reign, he’d never considered it would be his beautiful boy, his child who he’d connected and bonded so closely to, the one whose mind worked so much like his but had enough of his mothers influence to make him BETTER would have been the one to be his downfall.
He should be mad. Part of him should hate his son. But he couldn’t. He was too damn proud of him.
“I…I…just…I need the truth!” His son stammered, panting, his frantic pacing coming to an abrupt end. His son stared at him, his dark eyes filled with tears, blood shot and watery. He was pale, his body shaking as if it wasn’t a comfortable 72 degrees in his cell.
“What truth?” Martin asked, giving his son a sad smile. There were too many truths to name.
“You know what I’m talking about.” Malcolm managed to stay, sniffling as he stared at his father, his eyes hardening in determination. There he was. There was his boy.
“What version of events will be enough for you?” Martin asked, rolling his eyes. He knew this time would come eventually, but he did not want to do this. He didn’t want to change his son’s whole outlook on life with something that happened to him 15 years go. “Do you want me to confirm whatever tale you’ve managed to concoct this time? The one your mother tells to all of her high society friends to make herself feel good about herself? The one backed up by evidence collected from the police department you’re so fond of? There are a million truths out there Malcolm. You’ll need to be more specific.”
“The full truth.” Malcolm stated, some of the fire coming back into his eyes.
Good. An angry Malcolm was one he could deal with.
“You know more than anyone that the truth is tricky. One person’s truth is another’s lie.”
“No more games.”
“But you’ve always liked the games,” He couldn’t stop himself from giving his boy and exaggerated pout, his mind going back to better days. When Martin and Malcolm would argue riddles and philosophy. The simpler days.
“Ainsley got hurt tonight because I-“
“I heard she’s recovering fine.”
“She wouldn’t have gotten hurt if I hadn’t … I messed up because …. I need to know.” Malcolm stammered, his guilt complex rearing its ugly head for the millionth time. So that’s what this was about.
“Your sister, much like yourself, stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong.” Martin stated, shrugging. “I heard about what happened and I know she only had minor injuries. And you don’t need to worry about anything else,” Martin stated, turning away from his son and back to one of his books. “It’s being taken care of.”
“And what does that mean?”
Martin just gave him a predatory smile.
“No one messes with my family.”
“No one but you?”
Martin couldn’t help but laugh, chuckling at his son’s accusation.
“I’m not the monster you make me out to be,” Martin stated, amused.
“Says the man who murdered 23 people.”
“Ah-ah-ah! I confessed to the murder of 23 people.” Martin corrected, smirking as his son frowned. Turning those words over. Martin couldn’t help but wonder how those words were playing through his son’s mind. Which dots were connecting together? He was fascinating to watch work.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what the word ‘confessed’ means, Malcolm.” Martin chided, clucking his tongue in annoyance. “Are you done yet? I do have things to do.”
“No…you wouldn’t have said it if it didn’t mean anything,” Malcolm stated, frown deepening as he stared at his father, trying to read something that he would never get from him. Malcolm should know better.
“Not everything has some deeper meaning,” Martin stated, knowing his son was connecting the right pieces. And this was not a conversation he wanted to have. It wasn’t one Malcolm wanted to have if he knew what was good for him.
“Says the man who always told me ‘The real art of conversation is not only to say the right thing at the right place but to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment’.”
“Dorothy Nevill never spoke truer words.” Martin stated, smirking at his son. He knew they were on the same page. Malcolm knew there was more to the story. His son also knew nothing more would be said tonight.
“What do I need to do to get the full story?” He asked, looking frustrated, pained, and afraid all at the same time.
Martin didn’t say anything, keeping his expression schooled into something of nonchalance. An expression that Malcolm wouldn’t get anything out of. His son sighed in exasperation.
“Why did I think it would be any different?”
“Malcolm-“
“No, it’s always the same with you. I know you’re hiding something. Something about the cabin, the girl in the box, and the knife. I know it. I’ll figure it out eventually because I know its real. That means there’s evidence somewhere and I’ll find it,” Malcolm said, the fire returning to his eyes. That determination he always has when he thinks he’s onto something. For once, Martin wished he could turn that off. Convince him to let sleeping dogs lie. “And when I do … you’ll have no choice but to tell me the truth.”
Malcolm gave him one final glare before shaking his head and turning away, all but storming out of the room.
“Malcolm,” He called. His son paused just outside the door frame but didn’t turn to look at him. Listening to his words. “Some things, are better left in the past.”
The only sign he had that his son had heard him was the door slamming shut behind him.
Maybe he should tell him the truth.
Maybe it would be easier to tell him about the camping trip. About the rabbit caught in the snare. The way his son had begged him to save it, but the poor thing was beyond saving at that point. About teaching him the proper way to skin to and cook it for dinner.
About the kidnapping.
About the partnership that had gone so very wrong, so very fast.
About when he had found his son, he’d been catatonic over the body of a girl.
Both covered in blood.
The knife the source of it.
The way his son hadn’t been able to talk for six months.
The way he’d had to cover it up.
Because it hadn’t been his fault. But it would have ruined him. And Martin couldn’t have that.
It was better to stay in the past. He only hoped that once his son unburied it, he didn’t end up in a room like this.