Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

The two bedrooms are just as empty and plain. He hasn’t bothered with warmth or decoration, and he shuts down my suggestions to add a rug, a lamp, anything. Because he doesn’t want to be here. He’s just as miserable as I am.

I follow him into the sitting room, glaring at his slumped, robe-clad back. “I want to visit Lorne.”

He goes still, shoulders stiff, and sets the whiskey on the side table in a calm, controlled movement. Too calm.

I step back, hugging my waist.

“Oklahoma is off limits.” His tone cuts like a knife, but there’s a trace of pain dulling the edges. “You will not go there. You will not contact anyone at the ranch. And you will not mention your brother again.”

He won’t even look at me.

A debilitating ache sears my chest. A septic, twisted, uncontrollable ache. I can’t breathe through it. My face scrunches up, and my hands ball into fists, clenching to smash his head in.

I don’t care if he’s turned his back on me. How can he do this to Lorne?

After my brother was arrested, he remained in custody in lieu of bonds totaling three-hundred-thousand dollars, which my dad refused to pay. Dad also refused to attend his hearings, no matter how much I begged.

I wasn’t there for Lorne when he needed me.

And there won’t be a trial.

During his arraignment, he pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to ten years in Oklahoma’s maximum-security state penitentiary.

Ten years.

I don’t know how to swallow that. It’s permanently stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I cry and cough and vomit, I can’t loosen the agony of it. I can’t accept it.

Why didn’t Lorne fight? Does he think everyone gave up on him? Did Jake and Jarret go to his hearings? He must feel more alone than I do, and that thought hurts so damn much.

“I miss him.” My whisper shivers with vulnerability, imploring a reaction, empathy, some sign that my dad’s still in there somewhere.

“Write him a letter.” Cold. Callous. He lifts the whiskey and drinks from the bottle.

I’ve sent dozens of emails and letters. Is Lorne even getting them?

I also sent a letter to Levi Tibbs, outlining all the ways I hope he suffers. He took a plea bargain. One that will set him free in seven years. I didn’t even get to testify, and I wanted to so badly. Just to be in Oklahoma, to visit my home and my family and Ketchup. And to see Jake again.

Lifting my hand, I stare at the angry pink gash across my palm. In seven years, nothing will stop me from returning to Oklahoma and honoring my oath.

“The man who…h-hurt me will go free before Lorne does.” I curl my fingers, squeezing the scar. “That has to make you feel something. Please, Dad. I’m—”

“Enough!” He slices a hand through the air and grips his nape. “Lorne is dead to me, and I don’t want to hear another goddamn thing about it.” He slouches onto the couch and flicks on the TV. “You’re late for school.”

“I know you’re hurting. If not for Lorne or me, then for the loss of our life. Our home. Mom’s home.”

“You’re walking a dangerous line, little girl.” He stabs a finger at the door. “Go. To. School!”

The heartache constricting my chest is so familiar I should be used to it by now. But every day, it grows louder, more formidable, and I’m too bone-weary to ignore it.

“Why are we here?” I sniff back the rising tears. “Why aren’t we at home, fighting for him? He’s your son and—”

“Get out!”

“Dad, please. I feel so alone.” And sad. I don’t know how to dig my way out of this infernal emptiness. “Living here is slowly killing me. I need my family.”

He bursts from the couch and forcibly grabs a handful of my hair. Wrenching my neck at a painful angle, he uses his grip to haul me toward the door. My legs twist and drag, and my hair rips at the roots, searing pain across my scalp.

“Stop it! You’re hurting me!” I clutch his arms and try to wrench free. “Please, Dad. I’m sorry!”

He yanks open the door and tosses me into the hall. My backpack lands at my feet, and the door slams, rattling the walls.

Sharp, acidic loathing hits me hard in so many places. My knees buckle. My lungs gulp for air, and the corridor closes in.

I grab the backpack and bolt for the stairs, desperate to escape the downward spiral. But it chases me like a charging, fire-breathing monster, ramming through me, seething, raging, and clawing at my bones. I sprint faster, push harder, trying to outrun it. I can’t let it pull me down.

In the stairwell, I slow my gait and catch my breath.

Pull your shit together.

Tuck it all away.

Bury it deep.