Page 32 of Broken Discipline
“Mr. Lennon,” I said. “There’s something I’d like to show you. There’s a yellow jacket nest, but removal might upset the pink dogwood tree.”
“Just get rid of the nest and be done with it,” he spat.
“I wish I could, sir, but the location…” I shook my head. “It’s bad, sir. I’m not sure we can save the tree, you know? You need to see it for yourself.”
“Fine,” he muttered. He followed me around the side of the estate. I stepped to the side, gesturing at the dogwood grove. He passed me and I grabbed a shovel that was resting against a tree.
“Which one?” Lennon asked, swiveling around. “I don’t—”
I swung the metal end of the shovel into his head, hammering him to the ground. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, completely unconscious, but my mind filled with visions of seeing that shovel hit the side of Ramona’s head, Bruce coming in his hands, and Lennon’s puffy face bursting into laughter. The end of the shovel dug into his neck. I rested my weight on the metal until his neck split open like a geyser, his blood seeping into the dirt and grass.
My guard appeared at my side. “A bleeder,” he said.
“You got the carpet?” I asked.
He laid the roll of carpet on the ground and we wrapped the bastard up, stuffing him into the back of the work van. Once we got back to the Carter Compound, my guard moved Lennon to one of the exterior buildings. I wanted to put the corpse in the acid myself, but the desire to see my family was far greater.
“Back right container,” I ordered.
“Same one as the other?” my guard asked.
I nodded, then headed to the main house. As I burst through the doors, the twins squealed in laughter.
“Daddy’s home!” Larkin shouted.
In the kitchen, the twins shared a stepping stool. Bowls covered the counter and powder laced their fingers.
“We’re making brownies,” Leon said, carefully setting an empty bowl in the sink. “Want to join us?”
“You can taste test the chocolate chips if you like,” Larkin said. She showed off her fingers, little bits of chocolate melted onto them. “They’re very tasty, you know.”
“Deeelicious,” Leon said.
Larkin grabbed a bowl, ready to add the cocoa powder to the main mixing bowl. Ramona stood behind them, her eyes darting back and forth. “Now, try to be careful, Larkin. Don’t spill—”
“Larkin! You got it all over the counter!” Leon shouted.
“No, I didn’t,” she snapped.
“You did! Look at the huge mess!”
I slid onto a barstool across from them, watching in fascination. It was such a simple task—baking brownies—and yet, the twins were delighted at doing something so grown up. Ramona frantically wiped the counters between each step and the three of them kept laughing. But whenever the mess got any worse, Ramona looked up at me hesitantly, almost like she was measuring whether or not I would be mad about the chaos.
A pang of an emotion twisted inside of me. Had Bruce done something to make her nervous about making a mess?
I leaned in closer to the twins. “Will you save me a piece?” I asked. “It looks yummy.”
“Of course, of course!” Larkin shouted.
“Everyone loves them, Daddy,” Leon said confidently. “You’ll love them. I promise.”
From an outsider’s perspective, someone who hadn’t known Bruce, would think they got their dark hair from me. But Bruce, before he had gray hair, had black hair too. Still, I studied the twins, trying to see myself in their faces. A similar jawline. The same nose. But no matter how hard I scrutinized their faces, all I could see was Bruce. He had been more involved in their lives than I could imagine.
And it made me sick.
The nanny popped in from the side of the room, but once she saw that Ramona and I had it under control, she disappeared again. I kept her hired so that Ramona wouldalwayshave that optionifshe wanted it. But Ramona wasn’t like that. She forced herself to take care of everything when it came to the twins, even if it whittled her down. She made the two of them stand back as she put the baking dish in the oven, then helped the twins wash their hands.
Perhaps I had hired the nanny for myself too. So thatwewould always have that option.
