Diamond in the Dust (Lost Kings MC 18)

Tom paled and struggled to get out of Jensen’s grip.

“Don’t make me stop this bus!” the driver hollered.

I moved closer to Jensen, praying the driver couldn’t see the knife.

Jensen threw Tom into his seat and resumed his place, facing forward and flashing an angelic smile at the driver.

“Put that away,” I warned, gesturing to the knife.

He lazily slipped the knife in the pocket of his too-short black pants.

Jensen may have been my best friend, but some days I didn’t feel like I knew him at all. Especially lately. He’d turned dark. And not the whiny, angsty dark of other kids who lounged around in their rooms listening to their Staind albums on repeat.

Would Jensen really carve someone up, though? Truthfully, I didn’t know.

My stop was coming up soon. I gripped Jensen’s shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “Move up front,” I said in a low voice. “Ignore him. Don’t do anything stupid, please.”

Jensen studied me for an intense couple of seconds. “Even the blood of lambs can’t save his soul.”

I blinked. That wasn’t exactly reassuring. But weird shit always popped out of Jensen’s mouth.

The van lurched to a stop.

Bessy turned around and wiggled her fingers at me. “Bye, Logan.”

Man, her red lips were pretty. What were the odds I’d get to kiss her at the end-of-the-year dance next weekend?

Tom kicked the back of our seat again.

Ignoring him, I dragged Jensen down the short aisle, depositing him in the empty spot behind the bus driver.

“Later.”

“May the Lord protect you on your journey home.” A typical farewell from Jensen. And no, he wasn’t being sarcastic.

All was quiet on my street. No one walking their dog. No kids playing outside. Not unusual. A breeze picked up, rustling tree leaves along the sidewalk. Few cars drove the narrow one-way street in the afternoon, so I walked straight down the middle, kicking rocks along the way.

Did Mom get the job? I hoped she hadn’t lost her nerve after she’d dropped me off at school. How long would it take before we’d be able to afford to leave? I had a stash of birthday money hidden in a secret hole I’d carved in my bedroom wall. Maybe I’d give that to Mom to help. Would we get out before Dad’s next meltdown?

My stomach growled. Wonder what kind of snacks Mom might’ve picked up on her way home?

As I fantasized about Hot Pockets and Bagel Bites, and what hours my mom might be working at the diner, my gaze landed on our faded green house with the shaggy shrubbery clustered around the front steps.

Dad had stopped caring for the property years ago. I was old enough to pick up the slack. Maybe I should do that for Mom. It might cheer her up to come home to colorful flowers instead of all that drabness.

My feet stopped moving in the middle of our street.

Dad’s car was parked right behind Mom’s. Boxing her in, instead of taking his usual space next to her car.

Why the fuck’s he home in the afternoon?

My guts knotted into the size of a walnut.

I briefly considered turning and running toward the bus stop. But it would only prolong whatever was going to happen. Better to get it over with. Besides, if Dad was in one of his moods, I needed to be here to protect Mom.

That thought propelled me forward. My boots thumped over the pavement. I jumped the curb, landed hard in the grass, and continued running up the porch steps.

The front door was open a crack.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

No blaring television or music.

When things were good, my parents were always talking about something. When they were bad, they argued. My father’s voice could be heard halfway down the block.

Nothing but silence greeted me.

I glanced at their cars again before pushing the door wider and stepping inside.

A scent, something like burned copper and sewage, stung my nose and eyes, turning my stomach sour. My mind couldn’t process the smell before my eyes absorbed the horror.

Red.

Splashes of dark red on the walls.

Mom never painted in the living room. She kept her art confined to the small studio in the back of the house.

More details registered through my confusion.

Mom’s sneakers—dark green Chucks, decorated with little shapes and squiggles she’d let me doodle around the white rubber edges. Denim covering her legs. Smeared with more red.

Her small body slumped against the wall, arms flung to the side.

Her face. Her face. Her face.

I can’t.

I focused on her sneakers as I hurried to her side. My knees hit the hardwood floor and slid in something thick and sticky.

Her hand so cold.

Fingers so stiff.

Legs so still.

I couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

My heart rattled, as if it wanted to escape this nightmarish scene.

Across the room, something else caught my attention.

My father. What was left of him. Sideways in his favorite recliner. Hand curled around the revolver in his lap. More red splattered everywhere.