Cereza.
Chapter Eleven
Eden
After stopping three times to throw up, the car barely stopped moving before I threw it into park and tore out of the driver’s side, almost taking the door off its hinges. Blood roared in my ears, and I knew a momentary break in my stride would snap the control I held onto by a thread.
Climbing the stairs to the front porch of my childhood home, I opened the glass door and pounded on the huge paneled door with my fist.
Nothing.
I pounded harder, each slam of my skin against the wood timed with the slam of my heart against the wall of my chest.
Still nothing.
“Dad, open the door. I know you’re in there!”
The night replayed in my head as if looped on an eight-millimeter film. “Dad!” I screamed, the adrenaline starting to fade, and reality setting in. “Open the damn door!”
A slight movement inside caught my attention. Desperation took hold, and a cry gurgled out as I pounded one last time with my hand flat against the door. “Dad,” I pleaded, my voice breaking as I fought to breathe. “It’s Nash. He’s...God, Dad…” I couldn’t say the words. Saying them aloud made them real.
Slowly the door creaked open, and I stumbled to regain my footing. My father stood in sweatpants and a T-shirt, unshaven and unkempt, his graying beard overtaking his round face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were rimmed red, with dark circles smudging the skin underneath them.
“What’s wrong with your brother?” he asked, moving aside and motioning me in. “Eden, what are you doing here so early?”
The minute I stepped inside my father’s house, the air changed. Tension filled the room, and apprehension practically vibrated off him. Sticking his head out of the door, he quickly glanced around before shutting it and twisting two locks and a deadbolt.
I rubbed my chest, trying to relieve the suffocation that had built since running from the cantina. I leaned against the kitchen table, taking weight off my shaking legs.
“You’re drenched,” he commented, inching toward me. “Eden?” Almost hesitantly he reached for my arm, wiping off the smattering of rain that still clung to me like a second skin.
Flinching, I ran my hands down my face and stared at him as Nash’s words flashed through my head.
“Cherry, I don’t do drugs. They got the wrong guy. I swear.”
“Then what’s this all about, Nash?”
“Dad.”
As a tear escaped, I let out a slow breath. “What’s going on, Dad?”
He gave me a chagrined glance before turning his eyes away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His face told me everything. My father was a shitty liar. Me? I was a pro. I’d crafted evasion into an art form, but my father couldn’t look anyone in the eye and lie.
That’s how I knew.
Catapulting myself off the table, I grabbed handfuls of his T-shirt and screamed in his face—all the anger, fear, and anguish inside of me releasing at once. “You’re lying! Goddamn it, Dad. Do you want to know what happened to Nash tonight?” I released my hold on his shirt and twisted around to show him my back. “This is what happened tonight. This is Nash’s blood.”
I turned back around in time to see him pale, and his chin quiver. “God, is…is he okay?”
“No, he’s not okay!” I bellowed, my body shaking violently. “He’s dead! Drug runners shot him in the head!” Hysterical, tremors in my voice became audible as every word I spoke felt like acid on my tongue.
It was real. My brother was gone. The only constant in my life.
Dad stumbled backward, his eyes filling with unshed tears as his knees buckled. Running one hand across his mouth repeatedly, he pulled at his wayward hair with the other. “Jesus. It doesn’t make sense. Nash had nothing to do with…” A mask of clarity blanketed his face. “Oh, Jesus.”
His words took root in my head and exploded. One second later, I was on him. My father had a good eight inches on me, but grief rendered me unstoppable.
“Nash had nothing to do with what, Dad? What the fuck are you into that Nash got mixed up in, huh? Those men said something about Lachey owing money for cocaine. Why would…” My words trailed off as a closed suitcase and duffle bag perched on the couch caught my eye. Spinning back around, I wiped tears with the back of my hand and pointed to it. “What the hell is that? Going somewhere?”
He lowered his head, blinking back emotion as he walked past me. Wrapping his shaking fingers around the handle of the suitcase, he dragged it over the top of the couch. “My life is over, Eden,” he said, hugging it to his chest. “Everything’s over.”
“Fuck this,” I muttered. He could spout his philosophical bullshit all he wanted. I’d had enough. My brother deserved more. If nobody else gave a damn, I’d call someone who would. Reaching into my purse, I grabbed my phone and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m calling Brody. I care about catching the sons of bitches who murdered your son, even if you—hey, what the hell?” He snatched the phone out of my hands, staring at me as if I’d said I was calling the moon.
“Are you crazy?” he shouted, dropping it in his pocket. “We’ll both be dead before you end the call.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? And answer my question.”
“I’m a shamed, broken man,” he replied, looking to the side as if an invisible vision of the past had appeared. “May God have mercy on my soul, but I have to leave.”
“You do that,” I hissed, clenching my arms by my side so I wouldn’t take a swing at him. “You run like a little bitch while your son lays on a cold kitchen floor. Go hide, but I won’t. I watched my brother die, and I’ll take my last breath getting justice for him.”
“Don’t be stupid, Eden.”
I felt his impatience but refused to budge. “I’m going after them. Every one of them will pay.” My body shook as anger tore through me. Vengeance replaced the last traces of my humanity. “I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I can’t go back to my same life after what I saw. That life is gone. It died with Nash. I’ll live revenge, breathe it, and crave it until it’s served.”
We stared at each other, each of us unrelenting in our resolution.
Dejected, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver necklace. Closing his eyes, he let out a long breath and extended his hand, holding it by the chain. “Here. Take this.”
“What is that?” I blinked furiously, trying to rid my eyes of falling tears.
“Take it,” he repeated with finality, nodding once.
I couldn’t explain why, but I took the medallion out of his hand and squeezed it. The rough metal and smooth porcelain contrasted starkly in the dim light.
Studying the face, I glanced up quizzically. “St. Michael?”
He dipped his chin. “The Archangel. The guardian of souls who triumphed over hell. He was a spiritual warrior in the conflict against evil.”
Earlier images flashed in horrific sequence. “It’s a little late for a triumph over hell, Dad. I’m in it.”