“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dwight gasped.
“Need to knock some sense into you. Maybe you’ll remember then.”
This one’s for me.
He punched him again. Gratification pulled his mouth into a sneer. Years Dwight held back his love until Lucas, humiliated, stopped asking and acting out for it.
“Don’t fucking come home. Ever. When Mom sends you the divorce papers, sign them,” Lucas ordered, spittle raining on Dwight’s face.
The last thing Lucas recalls before coming to in his truck was pummeling Dwight’s face. He was shaking all over, sitting in his truck, parked on the side of the road. It was half-past three in the morning, so he’d only blacked out a couple hours.
He reached for the gym towel in the back seat and soaked it with water, emptying the plastic bottle. It bounced to the floor. He wiped the blood off his hands and almost threw the soiled towel out the window.
That’s evidence.
The warning seethes in his head.
He stuffed the towel into his gym bag and threw open his door. He needed air.
The night was cool and he was sweating. He fanned his shirt. God, his back was on fire.
With a grunt, he twisted his torso to ease the ache. A car passed, its headlights splashing across the small valley below. Metal and glass reflected the light, winking at him like a joker card.
Shaken about what he might find, he leaned over the side railing to get a better look. He couldn’t see a thing. He turned on his phone’s flashlight, directing the beam below, and stumbled against his truck. He almost dropped his phone over the side.
Fresh sweat dripped into his eyes. Sick fear knotted his throat.
Dwight’s car was down there.
How the hell did it get there? When had he left Dwight’s hotel?
He didn’t have the answers but his gut told him he’s the reason Dwight crashed.
Panic pushed him back into the truck. Desperation had him firing the engine and gunning the gas. At the last second, he eased up on the pedal so he wouldn’t burn rubber.
They’ll track the make of your tires.
Dots would be connected.
With forced calm, Lucas eased from the roadside and left the scene.
Now Olivia closes the door to Charlotte’s room and settles on the floor across from him.
“How’s she doing?” he asks.
“She’s resting. I gave her a sedative.”
He could use one. Or three. He wants to forget what he saw, and that he’s to blame.
She stretches her legs with a sigh. She sounds beat. Her boots meet his in the middle of the hallway. She knocks hers against his to say hey. There’s dirt on the edges of his soles. Is that from a job? Or had he scaled the slope alongside the road to look inside Dwight’s car and can’t remember what he found? Shame heats his face. He should have taken them off at the door, but he heard Charlotte’s muffled crying down the hallway. For a beat he thought Dwight had come home until he remembered his dad was dead and that he might have been the one who killed him. Dread is a brewing storm inside him.
“You owe me an explanation,” she says.
“For what?” He chokes on the words, fearing she knows what he’s been thinking.
“Not calling or texting.”
“I said I’d text if Dad came home. He didn’t.”
Her face scrunches up at his reasoning.
Whatever. He brings the bottle to his mouth and tips it back. Glorified fruit juice. He’d rather have a beer but he’s too tired to get up. His back still aches, as if he’d lifted his kayak overhead and javelin threw it into the water.
Or a body across a hotel room.
The thought lobs a tennis ball into his throat. What if the police come after him? What if he’s sent to jail again? He swallows the wine roughly and winces. His face hurts, too.
“How’s the nephew?” he asks so he stops thinking how he feels like a human punching bag.
“Josh”—she emphasizes his name—“is as well as a kid with a missing mom can be expected. We still haven’t found Lily.” She nods at the bottle. “What’re you drinking?” He shows her the label and her eyes go all buggy. “That bottle’s half a grand. Dad will kill you.”
He makes a guttural sound and averts his face, but not before he sees how green hers is. He wouldn’t be surprised if his looks worse. Gray like cremated remains. She cups her mouth and looks at the ceiling.
He drinks more. Seems fitting given Dwight can’t kill him.
He wonders what she knows. Have the police notified Charlotte yet about Dwight? He didn’t dare call her and chance someone pull his records. They’d see the timing of his call and from where he’d called.
Olivia reaches for the bottle. “Give me some.”
He leans forward with a grunt, hands off the bottle. She takes a tentative sip. Her eyes close. “Holy shit, that’s good.” She drinks more and passes it back. “Mom tried to knock me out with that.”
He stares at her for a beat, trying to picture his five-foot-three mom hitting his five-foot-seven sister over the head. “You serious?” She nods and he feels a strange tightening in his chest. “What did you do?”
“So it’s my fault?”
He gives her a look.
Her eyes roll upward. “I locked her in the cellar.”
A short laugh squirms out of him. Next thing he knows he’s doubled over.
“Stop it.” She kicks his boot. “It’s not funny.”
He laughs harder until he’s crying. And then he’s sobbing.
“Damn, Luc.” He feels her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Get the fuck off me.” He swats her hand.
“I just—”
“Back off.” He shuts off the waterworks and downs more wine.
She scoots back to the opposite wall and glares at him. “You’re an asshole.”
Tell him something he doesn’t already know.
“What happened to your face?”
“What’s up with you and Mom?”
“I was asking about Dad and Lily.”
“Work altercation.” He grimaces.
Her lips pinch and he looks at the bottle between his legs. She knows he’s lying.
“Dad isn’t Lily’s dad. Benton St. John is.”
His head snaps up and jaw drops. Holy shit. That explained so much. No wonder Dwight couldn’t tolerate Lily.
“Mom tell you that?”
She nods. “She also told me Dad killed St. John.”
“Fuck me.” Charlotte alluded to the idea that Dwight had offed St. John, but she didn’t come right out and say it. His dad’s a murderer.
So is he apparently. Fucking depressing.
A tear drops off Olivia’s chin. “Did you know?”
“About Lily?” He shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the floor. He considers chugging the rest of the wine.
“What about St. John?”
His thumb picks at the label. “Mom might have mentioned something.”
“When?”
“A few days ago?”
She nudges his leg. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I’ve been busy,” he says tightly.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. Painting. Your baby sister is missing. Your dad is a murderer. Your mom is falling apart. Your big sis is about to have a breakdown. And what do you do? Bail. Good on you, Lucas. Always the dependable one.”