We drank our beers while the sun sank lower and then Holden turned to me, his voice more subdued than I’d ever heard it.
“What was it like? Seeing something like…what you did?”
Instantly, my body stiffened. “What the fuck do you think it was like?”
“I have no idea,” Holden said. “I can’t fucking imagine it, actually. As much as I loathe the sentient-viruses-in-human-form that are my parents, to witness something like that…” He shrugged. “I guess what I’m really asking is, are you okay?” I shot him a glare and he held up his hands. “Don’t bite my head off. It’s a valid question.”
I held my stare but the defensive anger was melting away as I realized no one apart from my social worker had ever asked me about my parents. She’d told me most people wouldn’t—that they’d be afraid bringing it up would remind me of my mother’s death. As if I’d forgotten all about it until they said something. As if I didn’t walk around with it all day, every day.
Or relived it in my nightmares every night.
I nearly told Holden to fuck off, but no one asked me if I was okay, either.
“I don’t know,” I said to the fire. “I’m doing my best, I guess. And I’m done talking about it.”
Holden smiled—a rare, soft one with no sharp edges. “Fair enough. Let’s talk about something only slightly less painful and traumatic.”
“Like?”
“Girls. Not my preferred subject, obviously, but I confessed to you the depressing state of my love life. If you wish to unburden yourself likewise, I’m all ears.”
Shiloh’s perfect face with her smooth skin and full lips rose up in my mind. I recalled the intelligence in her eyes as she focused her attention on whatever job was in front of her. Like patching up a criminal like me. That was the gossip at school—Miller was the outcast, Holden was the vampire, and I was an ex-con posing as a high school student.
They were right, in a way. The stain of my father’s crime was all over me. Just standing in Bibi’s house or sitting on the patio with Shiloh felt wrong. Good but wrong. As if I’d broken into their perfect life and left bloody fingerprints all over it. But when I tried to hold back, stay quiet and get to work, Shiloh drew me out of myself. I didn’t want to move so long as she was sitting across from me.
Holden was waiting for an answer.
There’s a girl and I don’t want there to be a girl.
“Nah,” I said tipping back my beer. “There’s no one.”
At ten, Holden and I met Miller at the arcade. He got off his shift and we walked the Boardwalk, stopping for slices of pizza and to play a few carnival games. After, I walked home.
I walked everywhere. Luckily, the school, the Shack, Shiloh’s place, and my apartment were all close enough to each other that I didn’t need a car. But it would’ve fucking helped.
I climbed the exterior cement steps up to my corner place, reaching for my keys. But the door swung open at the slightest touch, revealing a wedge of black that was deep and dark.
“Nelson?” I asked, my hand creeping toward my jacket pocket for the Taser I’d swiped from Frankie. “You here?”
I reached to my right, feeling along the wall to flip on the light when I sensed it. Him. Someone waiting…
The dark came to life, breathing and moving. I lunged blindly and something heavy whacked my wrist. The Taser went skittering across the linoleum in the kitchen. Big hands gripped me by the neck and shoulders, and a cannonball of pain exploded as a knee drove up into my gut. Another blow from out of the dark split my lip, and then I was shoved to the ground.
I was still trying to get my wind when the light flipped on.
A huge guy loomed over me, his back to my busted door. He looked to be middle aged, wearing track pants, a T-shirt that stretched over his bulk, and a blue windbreaker. His reddish hair was thinning on top and he had pale blue eyes stuffed in a ruddy face.
I scrambled to my feet, rage burning up the pain and shock.
“You want to try that shit again?” I snarled. “With the lights on?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” the guy said when I took a step toward him. He moved his blue windbreaker aside to reveal a holstered pistol at his waist. His smile sent shivers down my spine. It was the same kind of sick smile my dad wore when he announced that my mother was “in trouble.”
“Ronan Wentz, right?” the guy said. “My name is Mitch. But you can call me Officer Dowd.”
Mitch Dowd. He looked and sounded deadly casual, but I could feel the readiness tensing in him, waiting for me to make a move.
“I could have you arrested for breaking my son’s nose, but I prefer to handle things personally.”