“Daidí!”

All five-years of Connor O’Neil stumbled over his own steps as he tried to yank on the rubber boots and run at the same time, down the hallway toward his dad’s office.

“Stopped raining, it did! Can I go outside now?”

Rolling over to his back, Connor pulled the rubber boot on properly and turned back to his knees. Pushing his arse back up off the floor, he ran the rest of the way to the office without stumbling once.

His dad always said he was too excitable.

That he had no patience.

And he should watch more and not shout as often.

Because people who spoke less, heard more.

Connor didn’t even understand what those things meant.

“Daidí!” he shouted at the office doors.

He wasn’t supposed to just barge right in, if the doors were closed, but it’d been raining for a week, and he was what his father liked to call a sickling. He didn’t know what that meant, either, but when too much wind blew into his ears, they ached. And if he got too wet by rain, he was coughing awfully terrible the next day.

Not today, though.

The rain had stopped.

He wanted to play.

Usually Lela—his father’s maid—would take him out, but he couldn’t even find her.

Grabbing the doorknob in his wee hand, Connor turned the latch and pushed the door open, barreling into his dad’s office.

He found the maid.

And his father.

Connor blinked, taking in the odd scene he was seeing.

Something five-year-old lads didn’t know.

On her knees in front of his father was the maid, her mouth open, and his father’s prick sliding in between her lips.

Even in his head, Connor whispered that word—prick.

He wasn’t supposed to say it, that’s what the maid said.

His father—Sean—had a handful of the maid’s hair and looked to be pulling it fiercely. Like it must have been hurting her, but Connor didn’t know.

Connor knew he’d done wrong barging into the office without knocking, but he’d shouted.

He’d shouted.

So, he couldn’t be in trouble for this.

His father always said he was too loud, so how come he didn’t hear?

He always heard everything else Connor did.

He’d whip him hard with a belt for being too loud.

Connor didn’t want to get whipped, and he didn’t want to have to pick a switch, either. So, he stepped back, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door shut behind him.

But before the door closed completely, he glanced back in, curious and heavy in his tummy. The first thing he realized, was that his father had noticed him.

Sean was looking straight at him, quiet and smiling.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

Connor wanted to shut the door, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move because the second thing he realized was no, the maid was not enjoying what she was doing, and she was in pain. Because his father’s other hand was around her throat.

She gagged, and choked. Her face was red—eyes wide and lips a wee bit blue.

Stop, Connor wanted to say.

He liked this maid, but she was not the first. Many had come before her, and depending on how smart she was—and how well she could please his father—her stay might extend longer than the few months that was usual for their maids. Then again, maybe not.

Connor closed the door, still heavy in his tummy, but not as curious now.

• • •

Water flew everywhere, each time his rubber boots came down into yet another puddle. He could not run fast enough. His lungs burned. His legs hurt. It still was not enough. And it was more than the nasty neighbor’s mutt chasing too close on his arse. He couldn’t outrun his mind. He couldn’t outrun what he had left behind. He couldn’t outrun what he had seen.

He had more important things to worry about, like the damn dog on his heels.

Connor’s lungs burned as he chanced a look over his shoulder, only to see the nasty mutt chasing him was still too close and gaining ground. His dad had threatened to kill the neighbor’s dog more than once, but that was because Sean didn’t like any animals, not because the dog was mean and had bitten Connor once before on his arse.

Miss Carol’s stone fence came into view, and for the first time all day, Connor felt relief. He wasn’t a very lucky lad, or so his dad always told him. Trouble found him, not the other way around. Connor was starting to think his dad might be right—except the fence was a wee bit of luck for him.

The stone fence enclosed Miss Carol’s entire property, and the only way in or out was to open one of the two iron gates at the front and back. She wasn’t nice, and she walked with her back hunched over at her shoulders. She had thrown crab apples at him after he climbed the trees in the back of her property—missed him by a mile, but he made sure to keep a distance after that. Connor didn’t think she would even know he had used her fence as an escape route.

The stone fence came faster than Connor expected it to, but that could have been because he was still watching the dog behind him. He managed to jump just in time to make it, but he didn’t clear the top of the fence entirely. The toe of his right boot hooked one of the oddly-placed stones, sending him flying head over heels atop the fence. His arms flailed wildly before he smashed into the ground with a quiet cry.

He’d learned long ago not to complain, even if he was hurt. It was only okay to complain if there was a lot of blood, or bones that looked wrong.

Still, he struggled to catch a breath, his ribs aching when he finally did draw in enough air, though that hurt, too. He almost smiled when he heard the sharp yelp of the dog as it crashed into the stone fence, almost the second after he had hit the ground.

Bastard, he thought.

Connor quickly remembered where he was, stood up, and shot a look in the direction of Miss Carol’s old house. The ivy growth along the brick and windowsills were covered in shadows from the large trees lining the side of the house.

Maybe she hadn’t seen a thing, or heard him when he fell.

He didn’t wait around to find out.

Keeping close to the fence, and being as quiet as possible to make sure the dog didn’t hear him, Connor followed the overgrown grass until he was all the way around the back of the house. He slipped out the back gate, not caring that it creaked loud enough to sound like the squawk of a dying bird, because as soon as he pushed it open, he knew he was free.

Triumph made Connor smile as he shot toward the walking path leading into the woods, never once looking over his shoulder. It would take double the time for him to get home as he crisscrossed the paths through several backyards of other properties, but he didn’t mind at all.

He wasn’t looking forward to finding what waited at home. Not after what he had seen before he left.

For the most part, their small Jersey community was made up of mostly people like him and his father—Irish. His father had never been very fond of his homeland, but he never made a great effort to separate himself from the culture, either. Nonetheless, it made his community feel a wee bit safer when he did go beyond his own property to explore.

Connor brushed the dirt from his clothes and hands the best he could as he made his way in the direction that would take him home. If there was anything his father hated the most when Connor played outside, it was when he came home dirty. His efforts didn’t help all that much, as the rain had left the ground muddy, and his clothes were covered in the muck.

Maybe he could get inside and to his room to change before—

“Hi.”

The quiet greeting made Connor trip over his own two feet, and sent him sprawling onto the muddy ground again. He quickly pushed up from the path, wiping at his face with an already-dirty hand, and probably making his messiness worse.

“Sorry,” the gentle voice said.

Connor found where the voice was coming from as soon as he righted himself fully. A wee lass with a pink and white dress, bright-yellow rubber boots, and a white bow tying up her almost-white hair, stood just off the path, hidden in the thickets and brush. Her clothes, pretty and frilly, held similar marks as his—muddy handprints across her tulle skirt, smeared dirt on the satin bow in her hair.

She was almost as tall as him, but not quite, as her wide eyes looked up at him when Connor moved closer. She had really green eyes.

“Hi,” Connor said.

She peered behind him, back the way he had come from. Her eyes widened even more, making her look like those porcelain dolls he’d seen once in the toy store when his birthday had come around, and his father had taken him to pick something out. Except she was different looking, too, as her cream skin was splattered with dark freckles, and her lips were more red than pink like the dolls’.

“Were you at Miss Carol’s?” she asked in a whisper, seeming almost afraid of saying the old woman’s name too loud.

Connor shrugged, not wanting the girl to be afraid. “Not for long.”

He didn’t think mentioning the dog would help.

“Daidí says not to go that far.”

“He’s probably right.”

She looked down at the ground where Connor still stood on the path. “I’m not supposed to go this far, too.”

Oh.

Connor’s father didn’t put boundaries about where he could and couldn’t play, but he thought that was mostly because his father liked when he was out of his hair, more than when he was stuck inside the house.

But if she wasn’t supposed to be this far …

“I can walk you home,” Connor offered.

“Not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said simply.

Connor frowned. “But we already are.”

And he was a lad, not a stranger.

The lass looked like she was considering his statement before she blurted out, “My name is Evelyn.”

“I’m Connor.”

“I like to draw.” To show her point, Evelyn held up a dirty notepad in one hand, and a pencil with a broken lead tip in the other. “But I broke my pencil when I sat on it. Not supposed to bring my pencils and paper outside when it’s wet.”

She had a lot of rules.

Connor pulled out a pocket knife from his jeans, and took Evelyn’s pencil when she offered it to him. A few quick scrapes of the sharp blade against the wood, and it had a new tip, ready for her to draw in her notepad again.

“Here,” Connor said.

Evelyn’s amazement lit up her doll-like features as she took the pencil back. “You have a knife?”

“Not supposed to play with knives?”

She shook her head slowly.

“They are sharp,” Connor said, his gaze catching the scar on his palm from where he’d cut himself learning how to peel an apple. There had been a lot of blood, so much it painted the counter, but his father had only laughed, while Connor had been entranced by the sight until the pain started. “Maybe that’s a good rule to have, Evelyn.”

Evelyn smiled up at him. “We’re not strangers now.”

“We’re not?”

“Nope.” Her white teeth flashed at him in her smile. “You can walk me home.”