Well, s**t.
I checked on Hugh several times during the evening. He was sleeping soundly, despite how restless he probably felt.
He’d grown up in a family where lies were a constant. His parents lied about his father actually being his adopted father. His adopted father lied about the fact he had a wife in New Zealand. His mother lied about his birth father being dead, and actually in prison for child r**e.
As he got older, his mother continued to lie about a lot of really trivial things. And Hugh had made it clear that he didn’t make any time for liars in his life. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more upset that I lied to him than about the fact that I drank blood to survive.
The last time I looked in on him, I saw that he was still, and his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.
