Marjorie lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, a rosary wrapped the hand that held the lighter. A mostly empty coffee mug for her to ash into sat on the kitchen table in front of her. She never smoked in their flat, hers and Francis'. She hated the way it lingered, clinging to fabrics and the walls, turning sour and acrid and making the wallpaper dingy over time. But that didn't matter at all, now.

She could hear him rustling in the closet, knocking on the door and occasionally rattling the doorknob, as if it would have unlocked in the time since he'd last tried it.

"Mam? It's dark in here. Let me out?" The thin, reedy voice ended on a question, sounding scared and confused as only a little boy's can.

"You stop that, James. You stop that and be quiet until Daddy gets home," she nearly shouted, her voice high, an edge of hysteria creeping in. She tried to take a drag, and found she was trembling too hard to. She held it with both hands, but pulled away quickly. She could still smell the gore on them, coppery and fecal, even though she'd washed them six times.

"Oh, Mother of God," she breathed. She dumped the cigarette into the coffee mug, listening to it fizzle out with a pssscht. It sounded so loud. She flinched. She tried to pray the rosary, letting her fingers caress each shiny, well-worn ebony bead until she finished with that prayer and moved on to the next. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. It rattled as she held it. She finished the Sorrowful Mysteries, and started again, glancing at the clock. Frankie would be home in three hours, and he would fix things. She knew it. She just had to make it there. Our Father, who art in Heaven…

"Mam? Please, I'm hungry." He had stopped knocking an hour ago, but her eyes were fixed on the closet door when they weren't squeezed shut. She tried to ignore him. "You be quiet, James, and think about what you did. You're not getting out until Daddy's home, and then you'll wish you were back in, so you will." Hail Mary, full of grace…

"Okay," the little voice said, resigned to the darkness. There was a soft thump as he settled against the door, and Marjorie tried not to cry, squeezing her eyes shut against the sting of tears. Holy Mary, mother of God…

Francis came home smelling of hops and young beer, his face long and weary, the day etched on it. Marjorie flew to the door as soon she heard his key rasp into the lock, clutching him and letting herself heave wracking, choking sobs into the corduroy of his jacket.

"Jilly, love, what's wrong?" he said tentatively, alarmed, holding her to him instinctively.

"It's- James J—ohn," was all she could get out. He guided her over to a chair and sat across from her. He disentangled the rosary from her hands, setting it neatly on the table before taking both of hers in his own beefy ones. "What about James John? -Where's James Paul?"

"I sent him over to the Brady's to play with Michael. I couldn't deal with them both," was the answer. Marjorie sniffled, trying to reign herself in.

"So what's wrong with James John?" said Francis, carefully.

"Go ask him. I don't know what we're going to do. I tried to clean it up, but I'm sure that old hag Mackey saw and everyone will know by- by dinner." Her face crumpled again, and he let her hands go so she could cover it.

Francis got her a fresh cup of coffee, murmuring something soothing as he rubbed her shoulders, before he gathered himself and headed to the boys' room. He flicked on the light, and cleared his throat. "James John, I'm going to let you out, but you're going to tell me what happened, and we'll decide what to do from there."

"Yes, sir," came the dutiful response, and Francis opened the door.

James John stared up at his father from the blackness of the closet, his wide, preternaturally intelligent eyes blinking in the bright, harsh light, having since grown accustomed to the dark. His black hair was still damp from the bath, plastered to his neck and forehead, and he had been left to find his own clothes. He held his arms out for his father to pick him up, and so Francis did. He settled them on the reading chair, balancing his son on his thigh, pulling the little blue and red striped shirt off and putting it back on right side out. "Start from the beginning. Why did Mam put you in there?" He hated that Marjorie did that. It was cruel, and he was only four and still scared of the dark. He'd have to come up with some other way for her to handle the boys.

"Because I was bad." The little boy recited.

"How were you bad, Jim?"

"I made her scared."

"How'd you do that?"

"I pulled a cat inside out."

Francis felt his stomach drop and the blood drain from his face. His mouth dropped open before he could shut it. He tried to hide his reaction, but the little boy on his lap saw everything. "I made you scared, too?" James John glanced back over to the closet, clearly expecting to be shut away again. His tiny mouth pulled down in a tense line.

"Why would you do that, Jim?" Francis could only barely force the words out.

"Because I wanted to see what it looked like," the boy said, a little pleadingly, watching his father steadily. "It looked like I thought it would. I tried to put it back together, but…"

Francis closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. "Jim, you promise me you won't ever do that again. That's not good at all."

"I don't need to. I know what they look like, now." James John shook his head.

"Not with anything else either. You promise me, Jim. Swear it right now." Francis tried to keep the urgency out of his voice, but it crept in.

"I swear I won't, Daddy." The little boy gave a firm nod. "I won't go back in there?" he asked, a little nervous.

"Not unless you scare Mam again. And you know what makes her scared."

"I promise," Jim said again.

"Good. That's my boy." Francis set his son down, kissing the top of his forehead. "Go over to the Brady's and find James Paul. Dinner will be ready soon." Jim found his shoes and ran out of their flat as Francis watched soberly, arms folded across his broad chest and his face neutral.

He went to find his wife. She was lying down in their bedroom, knees pulled up to her chest and the covers thrown back.

"How did we go wrong, Frankie?" she moaned, not turning over to look at him. "How did we have a child who could do that?"

Francis tried to find the words. "Sometimes… mistakes happen. You know he's so smart, Jilly. Both the boys are. We need to teach them better about right and wrong. He regretted it." He sat down beside her on the bed, resting a hand on the firm swell of her hip, trying to soothe her. He was as horrified as she was, but it wouldn't do to let her see that.

"He knew what he was doing, Francis. He knew, and he did it anyway. That poor kitten… You didn't see it. I didn't even know what it was until I asked him, and it was all over his face and clothes… I threw them away. And I just know that Susan Mackey saw! Her curtains were twitching, and now we're going to be the awful parents who let their boys kill small things." She sat bolt upright, the little gold cross around her neck falling into the curve of her breasts.

"They say that's a sign of serial killers," she whispered harshly. "What if—"

"Stop it, Jilly. Stop. He's no serial killer. He was curious, and he didn't know it was wrong to hurt it. He promised not to do it again. But you can't keep locking him in the closet. That doesn't teach him anything," Francis said quietly.

"What, you want me to beat them, Francis?"

"No! Jilly, please. But locking them in the closet is not good for them." Francis fell silent, rubbing her hip. "I'm going to make dinner." He started to get up.

"Just please don't make meat tonight. I couldn't stand it," Marjorie said, lying back down.

Dinner was quiet, the twins eating without the usual rigmarole and fuss. James John stole glances at his mother, who steadfastly refused to look at him. Marjorie instead stared at her meal, picking at the vegetables in the stew. Soon, she cleared her mostly-full plate and headed back into her bedroom. The sounds of her murmured prayer wafted the short distance to the kitchen.

Francis put the boys to bed, tucking them in and reading them a few chapters of Peter Pan, making sure to do as many voices as he could. They were all of them subdued, Marjorie's mood and the events of the day hanging over them all.

"You boys go to bed now, and sleep well. Tomorrow is a new day, and it will be better than this one," he said, patting their small backs before he turned off the light and left.

Jim woke up in the darkness to his mother standing in her nightgown, glaring down at him. He shrank away from the expression on her face, and her nails as she grabbed his cheeks, turning his face this way and that.

"You aren't my son, James," she said, shaking her head. "You're not my son at all."

She shoved his head back away from her, and she took a step back, preparing to leave. He didn't move, frozen where he lay, large eyes fixed on her, seeming to see through her. She shivered and fought back tears.

"You're the devil himself," she said, nodding, as if convincing herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth. "You're the devil himself, wearing the face of my real son."

She glanced up at the top bunk, where James Paul was sound asleep, long, dark lashes brushing his chubby cheeks.

"You hurt him, and I'll take you to the church and have them exorcise you, so I will." Her voice was thick with fear.

With that, she closed the door behind her, and Jim was left to the darkness and silence.