Branded (Savage Men 4)

Odd.

I walk through the shop, feeling my way through the aisles.

It’s so quiet too. I could probably hear a pin drop right now. Is he even home? He never leaves the shop this late at night.

Suddenly, my toes bump into something hard on the floor, and I almost fall, but I manage to catch myself on the counter. There’s a light there, so I immediately turn it on.

The counter is soaked in blood.

My stomach twists into knots as my eyes follow the trail down the counter, all the way down to my feet.

Right in front of me …

On the cold hardwood floor …

My papa’s lifeless body remains.

I sink to my knees in front of him, grasping his hand. “Papa! Papa?” I yell, shaking him. “Wake up, please!”

I push aside the piece of wood from a shelf lying on his face, along with all the items that fell off it. His face is bruised, and his eyes and lips are swollen. If I didn’t know it was him, I wouldn’t even recognize him.

As I look for the cause of the bleeding, my breathing grows ragged, uncontrollable, just as my heartbeat.

There’s a gaping hole in his stomach.

“NO!” I yell. I immediately grab a piece of his cardigan, rip it off, and tie it around his body, trying to salvage what’s left of him.

But no matter how hard I try to bring him back, he doesn’t open his mouth even though his eyes are wide open.

“Papa! Please, you have to stay with me!” I scream, but my words fall on deaf ears.

I place my hands on top of his chest and apply pressure. One, two, three, four, five. I repeat this until I reach thirty and then blow air through his mouth. I do it again and again. Countless times. Until the minutes turn into hours, until I have no more strength left in my arms to continue pushing.

My papa is gone.

Finished.

Dead.

I’m trembling beside his beaten body.

I stare into nothingness. There’s nothing left of me. Nothing but pain and suffering.

My heart is empty, my mind full. I feel as though I’m drifting out of this world, like my body doesn’t belong to me. As if I’m not really here.

Nothing prepares a person for the day their last parent dies. There are no words to explain the anguish of losing both of them too soon.

An unbridled howl escapes my mouth, but it pales in comparison to the noise inside my head.

My body wants, no begs me, to cry … but I can’t. I’m shaking violently, unable to set aside the broiling rage igniting the flames inside my heart.

No matter how hard I try, the tears to quench the heat refuse to roll down my cheeks.

My papa always said never to cry for the dead.

He said a lot of things.

Now I’ll never hear him say them again.

I didn’t think I’d ever miss him scolding me, but now I do.

Fuck, how badly I wanted him to be here when I came into the shop, so he could berate me for disappearing on him, for hurting Derek, for ruining my grades, for hanging out with Dixie.

For … anything.

I’d trade the world to hear him speak one last time.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Someone took that opportunity away from me.

I slowly get back up on my feet and take in the carnage in front of me. The hole in his body looks like the size of a shotgun. Nothing about this is natural.

He was shot in cold blood. Murdered in his own home.

I ball my fists. How dare they? How dare they come into my house and kill my only fucking family as if he means nothing?

A part of me wants to scream and let the world know I will kill the son of a bitch responsible. That’s when I notice something shiny lying on the counter next to the cash register.

A silver Zippo lighter. Just like mine.

My throat clamps up.

I can’t breathe.

I feel violently ill.

I immediately run into the bathroom at the far end of the shop and throw up in the toilet. After flushing, I wipe my mouth with toilet paper and march back into the shop. There’s a small note on the counter next to the Zippo. With trembling hands, I pick it up and read the text.

You deserved this.

Ben & Danny

The note crumples in my fist.

I’m tempted to light it on fire along with them, but that wouldn’t be a smart move. No, I’ll keep this safely tucked in my back pocket.

Still, I can’t believe they did this. They killed my fucking papa.

All because of that goddamn fire at the farmhouse. The fire I started … the fire the Burrells had to douse … and then blamed my papa for.

Taking one look at his body makes my mouth dry and my eyes watery, but I refuse to shed the tears.