Someone is in my room.
Without thought, I spring up and reach for the gun in the top drawer of my bedside table. But when I hear who it is, I halt.
“Ack, ya won’t be needin’ that, cub.”
Uncle Sean sits in the chair by my bedside, reading the morning paper. He is untroubled by the fact that I was seconds away from shooting first and asking questions second.
Running a hand through my snarled hair, I sit up against the bedhead, indicating if he wants to speak, then better he does so now. I’m still gutted he lied to me for all these years. I know he thought he was protecting me, but I’d have preferred the truth.
“Are ya still angry with me?” he asks, lowering the paper and looking at me over the rims of his glasses.
“No.” My short response is hardly convincing.
“When yer older, y’ll—”
