Genevieve

Holden escorts me down the long, dimly lit hall and back into the office, where the man - my father - stands, hands clasped behind his back, facing the windows. Holden’s father and brothers are gone. I hadn’t noticed the windows before, but as I enter the room I can see rooftops behind them, rusting weather vanes, the uniform nineteenth-century batîments of central Paris. The sky beyond is tinted orange with sunset or sunrise; I’m not sure which.

“Are you quite alright?” He asks calmly, even before he turns to see me. The casual concern in his voice throws me off guard, almost as if he’s dealt with my kind before, as if he’s accustomed to the outbursts and the fits of panic, and to my own surprise it stings. He sounds tired, even, like he’s tending to a toddler coming down from a tantrum.

How dare he, I think, as rage builds in my chest.

“No, I’m not, Dad,” I hiss; because he doesn't give a fuck about me, because he's never given a fuck about me, because he left us for dead and almost killed Gina, for Christ's sake.

“You know Mom’s dead, right?" I spit the words out like poison. I want to hurt him. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone this badly. "Heroin addict. I watched her die, alone, in a bathroom stall. I was nine.”

My father stares at me somberly, but it’s not the reaction I’m looking for. “I know, my darling,” He says softly, “I’m so sorry-”

“I’m not your fucking darling.”

“I’m so sorry,” He whispers, again, his eyes glistening wet. His hands twitch at his sides. “I loved her. You must know that. I loved her so much…”

“That’s bullshit,” I reply, incredulous.

“... I loved her so much, Genevieve,” My father says, again. He’s crying now, and it disgusts me. His weakness disgusts me. “I loved her, and I love you,”

“Then where were you?!” I practically spit in his direction, my voice rising two octaves.“You left us to die. You left us to die, you fucking coward!”

“I did not leave you!” He suddenly shouts, angrily. His face has taken on a beet red, his brows furrowed, but the tears are streaming down his face and running into the creases of his cheeks, and he looks old, and haggard, and furious. “Genevieve, your mother left on her own accord. I didn’t… God, I didn’t even know she had you, I didn’t know, I didn’t even get to say good-bye… One day she was, she was just gone and I… That was the last time...”

His hands are shaking violently now, and so are his knees, and suddenly Holden is at his side and escorting him into the nearest armchair.

“Sir, you need to sit down,” Holden says calmly, and I recognize his tone; it’s the same he’d used with me only ten minutes before, in the bathroom down the hall. With a start, I realize where I get the panic attacks from.

My father obediently sits, still shaking, still crying, and buries his face in his large hands.

“I’m a bad man, Genevieve,” he groans, his voice strained and muffled beneath his palms. He’s speaking to me but I can’t see his face, only the mess of silvered hair and the slow drip of tears running between his fingers.

“Your mother, she… She knew this... She knew the life you’d be brought into, and she wanted better… She wanted more... If I knew she’d leave me, that she’d leave me and take you with her, I would have abandoned it all. I would have left the business, everything, every penny, for my beautiful girls… My beautiful, beautiful girls… Oh God, ma belle Genevieve, my moon, my stars, forgive me.”