Page 89 of The Locksmith's Promise

I nodded slowly, struggling not to lash out as the walls closed around me. “I’ll think about it.”

I was still mulling things over the next day when I walked out of the general store with my arms full of supplies for a job I landed refinishing a basement.

It was the best kind of job because the house was vacant until the end of the month which gave me all kinds of flexibility.

Juggling to pull my keys from my pocket, I didn’t notice my father’s work truck parked in the spot beside mine until I was right beside it.

He loved that thing and kept it in mint condition. It was the only thing he cared about.

My heart burst from my chest at the sight of that hated license plate, the rush of blood filling my ears like the waves of a stormy sea.

I took two steps back, my head swiveling on my neck to look for him before I remembered he was very much dead.

And I shouldn’t be seeing his truck anywhere.

“Stepping into the old man’s shoes, hm?”

My gaze shot up and met the bloodshot eyes of my father’s old drinking buddy, Vince. Lip curling with distaste, I snarled, “I fucking hope not.”

“Watch your mouth,” he growled back. “You don’t know what it’s like to raise a kid. You’ve been a father for what? A day and a half?” he sneered. “Wait until that kid turns thirteen. If he’s anything like you were, he’ll be out of control. Then let’s see how you handle it.”

Fear and fury spun together, irrevocably mixed, and lacerated my insides at the stark, unavoidable, reminder of my father slapping me in the face around every corner.

My back stung.

“Yeah, well, I won’t fucking tie him to a chair and burn the shit out of his back.”

The blurry edges of a memory that could easily have been a bad dream roared in my ears and shocked me into silence.

No.

I saw Vince’s mouth moving but couldn’t make sense of his words.

Shame and sheer force of will carried me to my truck, opened the door, and got me inside without dumping my purchases.

I slid the key into the ignition and skid out onto the street.

Half of me reached for the scrap of memory while the other half slashed it to ribbons with the serrated edge of my grief until it lay in unidentifiable slivers on the floor of my trembling psyche.

“You’re a grown man, not a child. And he can’t hurt you anymore,” I chanted.

My heart rate slowed to normal, but the sick feeling in my stomach persevered.

I worked long into the evening hours, breaking only once to send Maggie a quick text to let her know I wouldn’t be by the house tonight.

Then I shut off my phone and began taping the drywall I’d spent the afternoon hanging.

When my back refused to do any more, I cleaned up and locked the door behind me.

The night whispered my secrets, urging me to run while I still could, but I forced myself to breathe deep and walk sedately to my truck. Sitting with my hands on the steering wheel, I willed my heart rate to steady before backing out of the driveway.

But instead of turning toward home, I headed in the opposite direction.

Cursing myself for a fool, I pulled up to the curb and shut off the engine. After mulling over my options for another five minutes, I got out and trudged up the driveway to the front door.

I’d barely knocked when it swung open.

“Bax?”

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