It takes three tries for me to connect my shaking hand to the handle, two to get it open and myself through. I put a first foot on to the landing when heavy footsteps pound toward me. I should run, just like Harris told me to, but I’m frozen. Bile ebbs and flows in my throat, my stomach having a hard time deciding what to do as well.
Dark brown hair crests the steps, moving higher to reveal the hardened face I always thought to be my idea of what comfort is. I’ve trusted the eyes that are now fixed to me with my life. I’ve loved that gentle smile since I can remember. So why would now be any different?
“Hey, baby girl. You remember what I told you?” Harris comes to a stop before me, bending one knee so he’s slightly lower than I am and placing his huge hands on the outside of my shoulders. I look down into his face, searching it for an answer to the question I don’t need to ask.
“I remember.”
“Now’s time to run, okay? You go straight down those stairs, and you don’t look back. Can you do that for me?”
I nod rapidly, but I’m not so sure I can. My feet are lead weights, my legs useless sticks of chalk.
“Got anythin’ you wanna take with you?” He smiles, a hand moving to cup my cheek.
“I . . . I don’t think so. Where’s Mom?”
“Sleeping.” He smiles, but his eyes are telling me so much more, and it’s so much worse. “You run somewhere safe, baby girl, and I’ll come find you when the time’s right.”
What does he mean ‘somewhere safe’? Aren’t I safe with him?
Harris gives me a gentle push, coaxing me past him, and something kick starts in my legs. I take the stairs two at a time, finding he already has the front door open. I run, just like he told me to, but I don’t go far. I can’t. I need to see what he does; I need to see who’ll walk out of there.
Tucking myself into a ball, I hide between some of my mother’s flowery bushes and our front fence, watching the front door like a hawk. Hope wedges in my throat, a pill I can’t quite swallow as I wait to see if Mom will walk out okay. Or Dad. I’d take either of them, just to know they’re okay. I just want somebody who’ll hold me and make the confusion go away.
Time passes, and it seems nothing happens. I stare at our wooden home, wondering what Harris is doing inside. Is he trying to help my parents? A light catches my eye, and I know without a flicker of a doubt he’s doing no such thing. The evidence of what he’s been up to dances in the upstairs window—my parents’ room. Within minutes, smoke pours out the front door, and the crackle and pop as things ignite echoes out with the grey plume. Still, there’s no Mom, there’s no Dad, and there’s not even a Harris. I watch as my family home goes up in flames, I flinch as windows explode from the heat, and I cry as the first parts of my life begin to crumble under the pressure.
I’ve given up hope of ever seeing anyone I love again when a shadowy figure emerges in the doorway. He crawls, staying under the smoke, but I know without a doubt it’s Harris. Something is in his hand, something large that he’s leaning on as he moves. I shift my legs to approach him, but he stands, and the look on his face is nothing I’ve ever seen. I might be young, and I might not have experienced the world yet, but even a child can recognize the look of a broken man. As he walks past where I hide, I hold my breath to avoid being found. This man is a monster, a stranger, and how can I be sure he won’t change his mind and kill me too?
Harris, the man I’ve loved like a second father, takes a final look at the house and mounts his bike, riding off with my ability to trust somebody ever again. And all I can do is wonder, what did I do wrong?
I sit up with a jolt, my eyes wide as the images from my memories freeze into my mind like slides from a fucked up family holiday. The details, the things I chose not to see before, smack me about the head and berate me for being so blind all these years.
The moaning after the first shot; I always thought it was my mother, her voice distorted with grief, but when I push that preconception aside and unbox the memory, it was my father. Which means Mom died first. Hearing Harris asking my father what he’d done only points to the fact it was probably an accident.
But that second shot. It had to have been done on purpose—anger, revenge, betrayal . . . heartbreak.
And when Harris had found me on the landing, I’d chosen only to remember his face, his eyes as he spoke to me. But there was more. If I widen the lens, the evidence was all over his cheeks, his neck, and his clothing. He wore blood like a shower of rain, staining him in tiny droplets of guilt. If he’s the last man standing, he clearly shot my father, but how would he get covered in that much blood if he faced my dad? He couldn’t—surely. Does that mean he was behind my mom when my father shot her. What the fuck?
My chest heaves as the knots unravel. The picture grows clearer. All these years I chose to believe so single-mindedly that he shot both of them, that it was because he was angry with both of them. But he wasn’t, was he? He loved my mother, and when I think back on it, perhaps he loved her a little too much. Eyes lingering a little too long, hands touching a little too much, my father lowering his voice a little too often when he addressed my uncle.
Harris was in love with my mom. Harris probably wanted my mom. Which explains the argument, but not the outcome. What were they talking about? Was it just the fact my uncle had such strong feelings for Mom? Did she reciprocate his feelings? Did Harris come to take her away from us? Is that why he got into a fight with Dad?
Thinking over things in a new light has opened my eyes to so much I missed before, but seeing these new facts also raises questions, leading me right back to square one.
I need to find somebody who can tell me why my parents died, and although Eddie knows what happened, Bronx is right—I’m probably safer trying to get a bunch of bikers to share what they’ve heard on the grapevine.
I need to find Bronx and apologize. I need to track him down and get him to talk to his friends at the Fallen Saints, which means a trip to an old warehouse two hours drive from here to see a man about a dog—a lying dog.
RECALL
Bronx
“You best be gettin’ your ass back here, fucker, because I’ve got a few things you need to clear up.” King’s tone is low and level, but there’s no missing the hidden threat in it.
“Like what?”
“Like a problem at my front gate. A problem who won’t take no for an answer.”
Shit. There’s only one person I’ve told about my connection to the Saints. “Ryan?”
“You bet your ass that’s her name. Told her she’s not welcome, and now the bitch has damn near chained herself to the gate until she sees you. What the fuck is she doing here, Bronx?”
I cringe, realizing I probably should have answered the messages she’s been sending through. “I might have told her a thing or two.”
“I’m goin’ to pretend you didn’t say that, step my ass over to my liquor cabinet, and try to find some patience in a bottle of Jack. You have an hour to get yourself here before I fuckin’ set the whores on to her. Bet they’d have a few things they’d like to teach your girl about territory.”