Page 22 of Mason

I eye him, refusing to back down. He’s pathetic, still wearing his wrinkled clothes from yesterday, the top stained with booze. “Right now I don’t give a flying fuck about his kid. I care about Spencer, and you should too. Sit around drinking your problems away, but I prefer to do something about mine.”

“Mason…” Grady trails, but it’s pointless. He’s just as guilty of hiding behind the bottle. This entire family has gone to shit because of it.

I turn and leave, receiving a hail of obscenities to my back from a sputtering Dad.

I almost trample Mom in the hall on the way out. It’s obvious she’s been listening at the door where she’s standing against the wall, her eyes bloodshot from the waterfall of tears that won’t let up. I haven’t seen her since yesterday. Unlike Dad, she’s at least changed into a new dress for the day, her curly hair tamed into its usual chignon.

Seeing her dark curls makes my chest tight.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Spencer. What was left of Spencer. His curls soaked in blood. So much fucking blood.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of my knuckles. “They’ll pay. I promise. I won’t rest until they pay.”

* * *

I intended to spend the rest of today listening to gossip about Spencer at places around the city, but my stomach grumbling serves as an unwelcome reminder that I didn’t leave out food or water for the unwanted pet Dixon gave me.

Technically, she can drink from the tub’s faucet and go a day without food, but I can’t do that to an innocent. Even if she’s Giambelli’s kid.

By the time I make it to the dirt road, it’s afternoon.

Hiking through the dense briers isn’t any easier in the daylight. If anything, it’s harder, since I can see every goddamn stab of pain before it hits.

I approach the cabin quietly, listening for the girl inside. I’ve never taken anyone captive before, but I imagine they scream their fucking throats out, so I’m surprised to hear nothing.

I purposely skip the squeaky parts on the porch’s stairs and try to open the cabin’s door without making a racket. Thankfully, it opens without too much of a fight.

Inside, the main room is as filthy and barren as it was last night. Still wreaks of forest funk, too. The rain this morning seems to have somehow made it worse.

It’s deathly quiet, and when I inch the bathroom door open, I brace myself to not see her on the other side. That, or to find her dead from the pharmacy Dixon forced into her system.

But she hasn’t run off or croaked.

She sits in a huddle against the wall with her knees to her chest, my coat draped over her just as I’d left it last night. This morning, actually. I didn’t leave the cabin until after two. I waited around to make sure she settled before leaving, listing every way I’d fucked up in life to pass the time.

Her espresso hair is a tangled mess, the rest of her makeup now faded, fully revealing the purple outline of a handprint on her cheek. Someone gave her a hell of a backhand. Judging by the size, a man. Whoever did it deserves his fucking hand broken.

Her eyes flick to me, the color catching me off guard. They’re so dark they’re almost black. She doesn’t say a word, but the bob of her throat and slight clench to her jaw say more than enough. She’s terrified.

Now that it’s daylight, I can see her. All of her. Smooth olive skin. Full, pouty lips. A pert nose. I’ve never seen anyone like her in the flesh—only on billboards and magazines. She’s fucking flawless. No wonder Giambelli keeps her under lock and key.

After a long moment of staring at one another, I lift the plastic bag of food I grabbed on the way over. I didn’t trust that Dixon hadn’t just left dog food to feed her. “I forgot to leave out supplies. I’m sorry.”

A snort catches me by surprise from her corner of the room. “How about you apologize for kidnapping me, asshole?”

“Excuse me?” I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. Here I thought she was scared, and she comes at me with a fucking forked tongue.

She tilts her chin high, fixing her eyes to mine. “You heard me, motherfucker. I didn’t stutter.”

Well, well, well. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

“You have a mouth on you.” I hold my ground in the doorway, amused that this ant I could crush is so freely giving me lip. Her last name’s dangerously inflated her self-confidence. No wonder Dixon had to drug her again.

“And you have brass fucking balls,” she fires back, her nostrils flaring. “Kidnapping Anthony Giambelli’s daughter wasn’t your brightest moment, huh?”

I eye her, genuinely shocked at the obscenities she’s hurling. Apparently no one taught this rebel without a cause respect. That kind of talk in my neck of the woods out of a lady means soap or hot sauce on her tongue. “Does your father know you talk like this?”

She cocks her head and her lips purse. “Does your father know he raised a fucking moron?”

---