Page 78 of Revenge At Raleigh High
Max wrinkles his nose, staring down at his iPad, “What does…justifiable homicidemean?” He stumbles over the legal term, frowning heavily.
I grab hold of the iPad, ripping it out of his hands. On the screen: a news piece from the Raleigh Reporter, stating that the prosecution in the case Weaving vs Moretti are filing to have Alex tried for attempted murder. The journalist hazards a guess that Alex’s legal team will be pursuing a self-defense verdict. Damn right, they are. Iknowthey are. I’m paying them a hell of a lot of money to make sure of it.
“Dad, I’m eleven. I can just google it if you don’t tell me,” Maxie grouses.
“Justifiable homicide is when someone kills someone to protect themselves or someone else,” I sigh, rubbing awkwardly at the back of my neck. I shouldn’t have to be talking about stuff like this with him. He just said it himself—he’seleven, for Christ’s sake. Whatever happened to the age of innocence? Things were hardly peachy when I was a kid, but they’re infinitelysomuch worse now.
“They can’t say Alex did that, though, because he didn’t actually kill anyone, did he? That Jacob guy’s still alive.”
A hot stab of regret hits me square in the chest. “Yeah. Yeah, he is, Bud.” He shouldn’t be. He should be rotting in the ground with maggots feasting on his eyeballs. It’s better for Alex that Jacob didn’t die, though. Better for all of us, really. Better that Jacob and that sack of shit father of his are finally being shown for the monsters that they really are. The DEA swept in and arrested Caleb before he even found out if his son was going to make it through surgery.
I kill the news report on the iPad screen, not wanting Max to read the rest of the information within the article. I sure as fuck don’t feel like explaining why certain members of Raleigh are claiming that Silver is making up her story of abuse, rape, assault and attempted murder.
“Mom says you guys shouldn’t try and shield me from anything anymore,” Max says, as we pull into the hospital parking lot. “She thinks it’s hiding things that got us into this mess in the first place.”
There are a few things I could say in response to that, but I hold my tongue. It won’t help Max if I go off the rails, calling his mother every name under the pitiless fucking sun.
“Let’s not focus on any of that now, shall we? Silver’s coming home today. We should just be grateful that she’s going to be okay, and that we all get to spend Christmas together.”
Max grunts, pressing his forehead against the van’s window. “I wasn’t very nice. To Silver,” he says quietly under his breath. “I was pretty horrible to her when she picked me up from Jamie’s place before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s okay, man. She understands. Things have been rough for everybody since…well, since…”
It doesn’t need saying. None of it does. The past few months have been like a waking nightmare, and it’ll be a while yet before that nightmare is well and truly over.
Inside the hospital, Dr. Killington’s waiting for us with Silver’s medical charts and a bag of medication big enough to require holding with two hands. “As you know, the bleed on Silver’s brain was severe. It’s a miracle we were able to get to it before it caused any meaningful damage. There’s still a possibility that she could suffer the occasional seizure from time to time. It’s vitally important that she’s observed over the coming months. If she does have any more seizures, then we may have to start looking at medication for that, too.”
We’ve been over this a thousand times. I’m all too aware of the complications created by the beating Jacob Weaving dealt her when he kidnapped and tried to kill her inside that accursed school.
Max listens quietly, chewing on his thumb nail as Dr. Killington—what kind of person doesn’t change a name like that when they become a doctor, for fuck’s sake?—goes over the dosages and potentially harmful interactions of all the meds Silver’s going to have to take for next few months. He sticks close to my side, owl-eyed and nervous as the doc goes through rehabilitation exercises and physiotherapy appointments.
“She’s walking fine on her own now, and that’s the main thing.” Dr. Killington attempts to end his brief on a positive note. “Her ribs are healing nicely. You can barely tell her jaw was shattered, and the best plastic surgeon in Washington took care of her nose. There’s barely even a kink. The rest of it, the scar to her chin and beneath her right eyes—you’re gonna be surprised at how well those heal. In six months, she’s going to look like her normal self. Outwardly, no one’s going to be able to tell that she went through something so terrible. Mentally…”
Since that night at the high school, my daughter’s been quiet.Tooquiet. Reserved. She’s tried to hide it, but the trauma of the past year has been weighing on her more than she wants to admit.
“The therapy sessions are going to help. It’s going to be one step at a time, Mr. Parisi. One step at a time. Oh, oh, Dr. Romera. Have you got a second? You remember Cameron Parisi, Silver’s father? He’s here to pick her up and take her home.”
A tall brunette wearing blue scrubs stops in the hallway. She’s thirty, maybe. Beautiful. A bag’s slung over her shoulder, a set of keys in her hand, and she’s bouncing a little baby boy on her right hip. We’ve met before, just once, the night Silver was admitted to the hospital. As one of the leading trauma surgeons in the state, Dr. Sloane Romera was flown in at three o’clock in the morning to save my daughter’s life. She managed to stop the internal bleeding inside Silver’s chest that many other doctors wouldn’t have been able to. The woman’s a fucking hero in my eyes.
“Ah, yeah, Mr. Parisi,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’m glad Silver’s finally being cut loose. Three weeks in a hospital bed’s enough to make anyone crazy.”
I shake her hand like my life depends on it. “You came to check on her before she was released?”
“No, unfortunately I was brought out on another emergency. One that didn’t pan out as well as Silver’s. A mother and her son. Car accident. They were coming home early from vacation and—” Dr. Romera eyes Max and frowns; obviously she thinks the details of the accident are too gruesome for such young ears. “Anyway, it was great to see you again, Mr. Parisi. My ride’s here, and it’s a long drive back to Seattle. I’d better be going.” Her eyes travel to a monster of a guy, covered in tattoos, leaning against the wall of the waiting room, watching us intently. He smiles when he sees Sloane, and the brooding, dark expression on his face instantly lightens. I bid the doctor farewell, unable to tear my eyes away as she approaches the man in the leather jacket who is obviously her husband or her boyfriend. The baby gurgles like a drain when the bruiser takes the little boy out of Dr. Romera’s arms and tickles him.
“Shame we can’t convince more doctors like Sloane to transfer permanently out to our smaller towns,” Dr. Killington mutters. “She’s on the fast track to a shining, very illustrious career in the city, though. All the money in the world wouldn’t tempt her away from that. Believe me, the hospital board has already made her some pretty staggering offers. Come on, now. We should probably go and find your daughter.”
* * *
SILVER
I haven’t looked in a mirror for weeks. Time and time again, I’ve told myself that there’s simply no need. Alex has been locked up, stuck behind bars in a dingy Grays Harbor County prison cell while he awaits trial, so what was the point in making an effort? Reality’s a bitch, though. You can try and lie to yourself until you’re blue in the face, and maybe you’ll succeed in convincing yourself of something on the surface, but deep down you’re always going to know the truth.
My truth is this: I haven’t looked in a mirror, because I’ve been too damn afraid of what I’ll see in the reflection.
Jake did a real number on my face. The broken nose, the split lip, the shattered jaw, not to mention a fractured cheek bone. For days after I was admitted to hospital, people would walk into my room and I’d have to react quickly, preparing myself for the moment when they took one look at my bruised, swollen, unrecognizable face, and they would flinch. I could handle the pain, that was tolerable, what with all of the extra special meds the doctors kept shooting into my I.V. catheter, but the looks on their faces… They scared me. I’ve been terrified that I don’t look like myself anymore. And if I don’t look like regular old Silver, then how the hell can I expect Alex to still be attracted to me?
It’s shallow. Stupid. There are plenty of more important things to worry about right now, namely how we’re going to be able to get Alex cleared of all his charges without Caleb Weaving’s legal team pinning something damaging on him, but I can’t help it.
