Page 91 of Loss and Damages
Billy snaps his head up. “Fuck, yeah, we were. Matt lives down the hall with his grandparents. They ain’t got nowhere togo after that bastard kicks them out. Us, my parents barely make ends meet. My ma’s got a bad back and gets disability checks. My pop does what he can, working odd jobs, but he’s got his face in a bottle most of the time. We need that low rent. Pitts was a fucking asshole and never fixed anything, but living in a slum is better than nothing.”
Solomon doesn’t point out what I’m thinking: his parents wouldn’t have such a difficult time paying their bills if their son found a job rather than terrorizing people and getting sent to jail for the effort. I do agree with one thing the kid said. Pitts is a fucking asshole.
“Walk me through what happened,” Solomon says, tipping his head toward the bullpen and to what I assume is the street outside. He leans back in his chair and hikes an ankle up to his knee, casual, and starts tapping his pen on the table. “How’d you get a bright idea like that? Pretty ballsy if you ask me.”
I’m surprised he’s bothering to push the kid further. Any second now he’s going to realize he doesn’t have to talk and lawyer up.
“What are you talking about? We didn’t do anything.”
“Didn’t do anything? You stink like gasoline, so there’s no way in hell you can tell me the explosion wasn’t you. Miss Ferrell’s gallery. The bomb threat. What else? I assume there’s more? You weren’t the ones who shot at Mr. Milano, were you? Got a gun we’d find if we searched your apartment?” I can’t see Solomon’s face, but I can picture him lifting an eyebrow.
Narrowing his eyes, Billy says, “You don’t fucking know nothing.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Keep it to yourself, don’t say anything. That’s your prerogative. But listen, you don’t think little Matty isn’t in the other room selling you down the river right now? Work with me, and I’ll put in a good word for you with theDA’s office. Get you a plea bargain. I’ll tell them you cooperated, yeah?”
“He’d never do that. He’s not a rat.”
“We’reallrats when we’re hungry enough,” Solomon says, putting his foot on the floor and leaning forward in the chair like he’s about to stand up. “Let’s see how hungry Matty is, shall we? Maybe he wants a bigger dinner than you.”
Billy hesitates, trying to decide if he can trust his friend. I could tell him from experience not to trust anyone. I never did. Until I met Jemma. “Wait! I’ll talk, but I want that deal,” he says, and I scoff. Good boy.
“That’s what I thought. Spill it.”
“We were just chasing him a little, flicking our lights—”
I straighten. He’s not going to admit to shooting at me.
Solomon’s shoulders stiffen in surprise.
“—that asshole’s Aston Martin, that thing could put food on our table for years, pay our rent for fucking who knows how long. We only wanted to scare him, you know? Entitled prick. We barely touched his bumper, but he slammed on the brakes and skidded off the road. His car bashed into a tree and like fuck we were gonna hang around.”
I press my palms against the glass, my nose touching the cool surface, my heavy breath leaving a mist.
“Then what?” Solomon’s voice is low and I barely hear him through the speaker.
“Then nothing, man. We got the fuck out of there. Found some plates in the city junkyard just to be on the safe side. We didn’t fucking know it wasn’t Dominic Milano until later.” Tears shine in Billy’s eyes and his voice squeaks. “They have the same car.”
Solomon looks over his shoulder at me, turns back to Billy, and shakes his head. He gathers the papers and closes the file.
Billy rests his forehead on his hands, his body shaking, the table muffling his sobs. So tough until someone gets hurt, so tough until someone gets killed and they have to pay for what they’ve done.
Solomon opens the interrogation room’s door, and I hear Billy’s shouts in stereo—through the speakers and his voice carrying down the hall. “Matt was driving, man! Matt was driving.”
The detective meets me in the narrow hallway.
“We thought it was a deer,” I mumble, unable to tear my gaze away from the punk who killed my brother.
“Guilt ate at him, seems like,” Solomon says. “He wanted to confess. We’ll get the rest out of his buddy. There’s no doubt they shot at you and probably a few other things we may or may not find out. Regardless, they’ll go away for a long time.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I shake Solomon’s hand and walk out of the police station. The sky has turned grey, thick clouds eager to dump rain onto the city.
Leaning against the building, I suck in the hot, wet air.
Leo’s death is my fault.
William Kidder and Matthew Young thought I was the one driving from Hollow Lake and decided to terrorize me, hoping I’d let the sale of the 1100 block go. Leo never wanted us to buy the buildings, adamantly argued against it many, many times. My father didn’t care what Leo thought, and by default, neither did I. All I wanted was to make Dad happy and buying the 1100 block ensured that.
Then he said he wanted the church and homeless shelter, and I realized it’s never going to stop. No matter how much I give my father, he’ll never love me the way I need him to. Without conditions, without strings. A simple love for a boy that his father should have because they're family.
