Page 9 of House of Sin
Ding!
The marble hit dead center, sending the can spinning off the fence with a metallic clatter that rang like victory.
“Did you see that, Mama?!” Ray shouted as he leapt in the air, bursting with pride.
“I sure did,” I said, my heart swelling. “That was very impressive, darling.”
The slingshot, John’s birthday gift to Ray just a few weeks ago, was already well loved. I remembered those quiet nights on the porch, watching John carve the wood, sanding and shaping it while we talked about everything and nothing.
“Daddy did such a good job on that,” I said.
Ray nodded, treating the slingshot as though it were more treasure than tool. “Can I try again?” He asked eagerly.
I nodded, settling into the grass beside him. “Remember to breathe,” I coached, echoing John’s instructions from those nights before.
Ray inhaled deeply, breath caught, his mind honed on the task as he raised the slingshot to eye level. Another marble. Another bullseye.
“Nice shot!” I praised, clapping.
He grinned, then lined up another. I watched as he sent three more marbles flying with the same calm precision, each one knocking the can with a satisfyingclink.
There was something quietly mesmerizing about it. The way he narrowed his eyes, the flick of his wrist, the little thrill each time the target toppled.
“Alright, mister,” I said, glancing at the darkening sky. “Time to get cleaned up and ready for bed. You might not have school tomorrow, but bedtime still stands.”
“Awww,” he groaned, dragging his feet with exaggerated drama.
I chuckled, unable to help myself. “I know, sweetheart. Being little is no fun at all, is it?”
We stepped through the back door and into the comforting hush of the kitchen, the familiar scent of soap and simmered onions still hanging faintly in the air, when a warm and unmistakable voice met us.
“Who says being little isn’t fun?” John called from the base of the stairs, his grin already spreading as he stepped into view.
“Dad!” Ray cried and took off at a sprint, bare feet slapping against the tile.
John dropped into a crouch, arms open wide and ready. Ray launched himself into them, full of momentum and joy.
“I missed you, Daddy!” Ray mumbled against his shoulder.
“I missed you too, buddy.”
John stood and reached for me, one arm slipping around my waist as he drew me in close. I leaned in and kissed him, not caring about the fine layer of dust from the mines still clinging to his skin.
He laughed softly, brushing a smudge from my cheek and, in the process, smearing another in its place. “That color suits you,” he said, eyes glinting with the quiet mischief I’d fallen for all those years ago.
I smirked, my eyes twinkling with playfulness as I looked up at him. “Dark like my soul, darling.”
“Never,” he whispered, voice softening as he stole another kiss, slower this time, more deliberate.
Ray, clearly appalled by this moment of parental affection, let out a theatrical groan. “Gross.” He announced, drawing out the word as though it physically pained him.
But the horror didn’t last long. With the resilience only kids seem to possess, he immediately launched into a full-speed monologue: “How was it in the mine today? Did anything cool happen? Did you know I don’t have school tomorrow? Mrs. Gratty got thestomach bugin the middle of class! It was so gross. Likeboth endsgross.”
“Ray,” I warned, lifting a brow. “Please. Spare us the details.”
John huffed a laugh, already slipping back into his role as the steady center of the storm. “Tell you what,” he said, crouching just enough to meet Ray’s eye. “Why don’t we both get cleaned up, and then you can sit with me while I eat supper? You can tell me everything, minus the graphic reenactments.”
Ray nodded so hard I worried his head might pop off, then took off upstairs like a shot, the sound of his footsteps carrying down the hallway.
