Branded (Savage Men 4)

He deserved better than that.

He deserved a nicer death.

He deserved a better me.

I can’t believe he’s gone.

That he was murdered.

It’s all my fault.

From the corner of my eye, I spot something glisten underneath his fingers that he kept tightly pressed together.

I reach out and open his hand. He’s holding the pendant he gave me.

The one I threw back at him as if it meant nothing to me.

I wish I had never said those ugly things to him.

But wishes can’t take back what’s been done. Wishes don’t bring back the dead.

Nothing will.

But there is one thing I can do.

One dark thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do again.

But promises mean nothing when I’ve lost the one person who kept me grounded. Who kept me from going off the rails.

I pick up the Zippo and glare at it. It’s stained with dark soil and soot.

They’ll pay for this.

With blood.

Chapter Thirty

Brandon

Past

November 9th

The first thing I did was call my uncle Josiah.

He’s the only one I trust.

The only family I have left.

When I told him Papa was dead, he didn’t believe me at first. I had to yell through the phone multiple times for him to finally come to his senses. He sounded just as dazed as I was when I found him there lying in a puddle of his own blood.

Uncle Josiah said he’d come right away, but I told him I was going back to the motel. I didn’t explain but told him where the motel was and what room he could find me in. Then I hung up.

Afterward, I called 911 using Papa’s cell phone and told them I found a dead body. I didn’t say my name because I didn’t want them to ask questions. I knew they were already looking for me to bring me in for questioning, considering what I did to Derek.

After I’m finish the call, I leave the premises. I don’t stick around near the shop. It’s hard to leave my papa there all alone, but I don’t want to get caught near his dead body either. It’s too much of a risk.

With a pang in my stomach, I hop into my truck and drive off.

I can’t get the image of my papa out of my mind.

How he laid there with his eyes wide open, pupils dilated, the agony marred onto his face.

The bloody wounds on his arms and the bruises all over his body.

That gaping hole in his stomach.

It’s too much to take. Too many vivid images in my head spiraling out of control.

I’m never going back there again. Ever.

That’s a promise I’m making to myself right now.

I don’t need a reminder of the horrible misery that happened there. And I don’t need a reminder of how much it’s my fault.

Because it is … completely … my fault.

My papa died because of me.

Because I dropped my lighter at that goddamn farmhouse at the Burrell’s. Because I set fire to their precious plants, and they decided to get revenge by murdering the only person who mattered to me.

My papa is gone because I made the foolish mistake of actually going to see Dixie instead of running off like I was supposed to.

Fucking stupid mistakes are all I ever make.

I bang my hands against the steering wheel, yelling, “FUCK!” multiple times.

It doesn’t lessen the pain.

The only one thing that does is the pendant hanging around my neck. It’s the only tangible memory I have left of him and my ma.

All they ever did was love me, and what did I do in return?

I hurt them. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Because they’re both gone, one of them because of my wrongdoings.

Because of the Burrells.

Fuck.

I pace around in my motel room until Uncle Josiah arrives. The triple knock on the door is all I need to know it’s him.

When I open the door, he barges in and slams it shut. Then he grabs my shoulders, and says, “Did anyone see you come here?” His voice is erratic, and it’s scaring me.

“No.” My gaze fixates on him, but he’s storming around the room, hastily checking things.

“You’re a hundred percent sure?”

He closes the windows and shuts the drapes. Now we’re cooped up in a small, dark room with no ventilation and no lights.

“I’m sure. Why? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

Why do I get the feeling that’s a lie?

“Who are you trying to protect us from?” I ask as he walks past me to close the window in the bathroom too. It’s as if he doesn’t even see me here. “Josiah, answer me!”

My outburst is enough to bring him back. He places his hands on my shoulders. “We don’t want the cops to come lookin’, now do we?”

“But—”

“You haven’t contacted them, have you?” he interrupts.

“I called 911,” I say, swallowing as his stern eyes look down upon me. “Papa … Papa said that’s what I was supposed to do.” Just thinking about him makes my throat clamp up.