Page 70 of Quiet Rage
Tonight, I’m going to set things straight. I’m going to honor the memories I fought against for so long.
He’s already upstairs. The first floor is quiet; his study is dark. My heavy feet take one slow step after another to the second floor. There’s light coming from under his bedroom door. My heart thumps slowly, all of tonight’s events replaying in my head. Watching the light leave Dante’s eyes. Holding Tamson’slimp body against my chest before tearing through the night. The complete, soul-crushing guilt in those tense moments before I knew she’d be okay. The almost crippling relief when one of the doctors told me I got her there just in time.
The agony of having to say goodbye, though I knew it was for the best.
I hope this is for the best, too. Knocking against the door, opening it when he grunts.
He’s sitting up in bed, a glass of whiskey on the nightstand, a MacBook open on his lap. “Everything all right?” he asks with a wary look in his eyes. He sets aside the glasses he uses for reading, closing the computer. I guess I look pretty much the way I feel if he’s turning his full attention on me.
“No. It isn’t.” I’m not going to bother wasting time. Too much time has been wasted already. And I want to catch him like this, off-guard so his reaction will be real. He taught me more than he knows over the years about interrogation. “What happened to Mom? I mean, what really happened? How did she die?”
He doesn’t jump in surprise, doesn’t put on a big show. Instead, he moves slowly, probably trying to come up with a good excuse while he pulls the blankets back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The master of his domain, wearing silk pajamas like some kind of kingpin. It’s all so sad and shabby underneath.
The fucking coward killed his wife. I don’t know what decided me just now. Maybe the furtive look in his eyes when his brows drew together over them. That one single moment where I took him by surprise, and his reaction was authentic.
He was a man who knew the truth was close to biting him in the ass.
But he’s had a whole lifetime to practice faking his way through this. “You know what happened, son. It was an accident. It was terrible. I looked a long time for somebody to blame… I did. It took years for me to accept there was nothing I could have done.”
And that is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth, which is saying something. This man does not accept powerlessness. If he really wanted to find out who caused the accident, who sent Mom off the road—supposedly—he would have. There would be no stopping him.
Instead, we had a funeral, and he never mentioned her again unless I asked him. Even then, over time, he was less and less generous with his answers. “So why did I hear tonight that you killed her?”
His eyes bulge. “Who the fuck told you that? What sick son of a bitch?—”
“It doesn’t matter who said it,” I murmur, watching him closely. The way he keeps glancing toward his pillows. The way his hands, sitting on the edge of the mattress, have tightened. “I heard she found out about all of your businesses. The things you do. It makes sense you would want to keep it from her, right?”
He’s confused. Not sure if he should agree or not. “That’s what men in my position do. We shield the people we love from the ugly parts of our business. That’s not a crime.”
“No, but it’s a crime to murder them when they find out the truth.”
His face turns a shade of red that tells me he’s ready to explode. “I did no such a thing. I would never! I loved her!”
“Really? Did you love her when you found out she was going to take me away? That she was leaving you? That’s what it was really about, wasn’t it?” I ask, watching as fear leaks into his eyes, as sweat beads at his temples. “It was about keeping control over what’s yours. She wouldn’t fall in line, so you killed her and kept me with you. Just tell me the truth. Tell me you did it. I see it on your face!” I shout.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He stands, and for one second, I think he’s going to square off, invite me to throw fists.
Instead, he shoves a hand under his pillow and pulls out a gun.
“What, are you gonna shoot me now?” The whole thing is so sad, but I can’t help laughing. “You’re going to pull a gun on your own son—why? To prove you would never hurt somebody you love?” The whole thing is too pathetic to witness a second longer. He knows I know. Right now, that has to be enough until I figure out my next step. I cannot live under this roof with him a minute longer. Not now. Not when I know what he took from me.
“Don’t you turn your back on me!” he barks, but I’m not one of his gambling addicts late on a payment. I march down the hall, fists swinging at my sides, his feet pounding the floor behind me.
I’m in my room, the door half-closed, but he kicks it open. “I am not finished with you!” He’s still holding the gun, aiming it at my middle.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” I scoff.
“Nobody comes into this house and threatens me,” he warns.
“What did I threaten you with? The truth? Is the truth such a threat, Dad?”
“I did not kill her.” He levels the gun at my chest, his voice deadly soft, his aim steady. “And I will be damned if I let you spread a lie like that.”
I don’t have time to ask when I threatened to spread anything. No time to understand why he’s so threatened.
A blond blur comes flying out of the bathroom and jumps on his back, arms and legs wrapped around him as she screeches like some kind of demon. Kinsley. She’s clawing at his face when he drops the gun, viciously throwing her off him.
But he’s not quick enough to keep me from picking up the gun and aiming it at him this time.
