Texas.
But Race didn't have to tell Samuel that.
Samuel knew the man, too. And he knew what this meant for his plans, losing hold of Zedman's child.
Katherine's father, who'd moved away, who Samuel had tried so fucking hard to let go, to believe he'd been punished enough.
He got a warm feeling, like a ski mask rolling over his face.
He remembered the whimpering sounds Talia had made, the magnolia smell in her hair. He looked at Race and saw that same guilt, same amber eyes as Talia's, and Samuel knew he had to swallow back the rage. Swallow it quickly before it killed him.
The stereo was playing a song he didn't like—some Britney Spears shit. He slammed his fist against the speaker. He picked up the whole unit and threw it—smashed it into the wall with the cord flying behind like a rat's tail.
That felt good.
He stared at Race, thinking how handsome the boy would look, so much like his oldest brother, if he would only clean himself up. Race didn't need to smell like sour milk, wear that ratty jacket, go around town like a transient from Talia's to Nana's to God-knows-where. He should be living here. He should make something of himself. Samuel had sacrificed so much for him. So much.
He swallowed again, but there was only so much he could do to counter the rage when he saw the pathetic way Race was holding that gun, like he could ever shoot anything.
“What you looking at?” Samuel demanded.
“You killed Momma,” Race whimpered. “This money—it's hers. Ain't it?”
“What you going to do with that gun? You going to fly down to Texas and shoot somebody? You going to kill people for that girl, huh?”
“I got to help her.”
“You got to do shit.”
Samuel slapped the gun out of his hand. He picked it up, and for a dangerous second the gun seemed to be working against him—seeking flesh like a dowsing rod.
Samuel hated that moment, hated Race seeing the loss of control in his eyes.
He pressed the muzzle of the gun into the mattress and fired, over and over, screaming obscenities that were drowned out by the noise, until the magazine was empty.
His hand burned. The sheets smelled like ozone. There was a black ragged hole in the mattress, all the way down into the box spring.
Stupid,
he told himself.
The neighbors will call the cops.
But he knew the neighbors weren't home yet. They all worked late in the city. Nobody in the condos this time of evening but a couple dozen shih tzus.
When the ringing in his ears died down, he heard the television sitcom still going in the next room, the AM radio bitching in the bathroom.
Race was curled up in the corner by the nightstand, his hands grabbing at his hair. He was shivering, a line of mucus glistening on his upper lip. When he cried, he made wet, drowning sounds.
Samuel felt his mind tearing in half.
His rage drained away, replaced by a deep protectiveness—a benevolence toward Race so strong it made him want to cut himself to prove his love.
He had tried so hard to protect his family. He had sent Race to Laurel Heights for the opportunities, not for revenge. And yet when the girl had gotten too close to Race, Samuel hadn't stopped them. He had expected them to become friends—he
wanted
it.
Then at Talia's house . . . he'd been heartbroken to learn that Race had discovered the body, that the police wanted to talk to him. Samuel didn't wish any of that on Race. Nobody should make that kind of discovery.
But at the same time, Samuel had anticipated it. He had left Talia there to be found. He had wanted Race to see her—the whore stripped of her ability to run away, to fail them, to lie. And he had spilled the girl's necklace into the blood, too, imagining that a police technician would pick it up with tweezers, watch it glimmer in the light, read the inscription.
For the first time, Samuel understood why he'd done that. He understood the pattern his subconscious had been weaving—the dark net taking shape under the tightrope.
Chadwick.
But Race didn't have to tell Samuel that.
Samuel knew the man, too. And he knew what this meant for his plans, losing hold of Zedman's child.
Katherine's father, who'd moved away, who Samuel had tried so fucking hard to let go, to believe he'd been punished enough.
He got a warm feeling, like a ski mask rolling over his face.
He remembered the whimpering sounds Talia had made, the magnolia smell in her hair. He looked at Race and saw that same guilt, same amber eyes as Talia's, and Samuel knew he had to swallow back the rage. Swallow it quickly before it killed him.
The stereo was playing a song he didn't like—some Britney Spears shit. He slammed his fist against the speaker. He picked up the whole unit and threw it—smashed it into the wall with the cord flying behind like a rat's tail.
That felt good.
He stared at Race, thinking how handsome the boy would look, so much like his oldest brother, if he would only clean himself up. Race didn't need to smell like sour milk, wear that ratty jacket, go around town like a transient from Talia's to Nana's to God-knows-where. He should be living here. He should make something of himself. Samuel had sacrificed so much for him. So much.
He swallowed again, but there was only so much he could do to counter the rage when he saw the pathetic way Race was holding that gun, like he could ever shoot anything.
“What you looking at?” Samuel demanded.
“You killed Momma,” Race whimpered. “This money—it's hers. Ain't it?”
“What you going to do with that gun? You going to fly down to Texas and shoot somebody? You going to kill people for that girl, huh?”
“I got to help her.”
“You got to do shit.”
Samuel slapped the gun out of his hand. He picked it up, and for a dangerous second the gun seemed to be working against him—seeking flesh like a dowsing rod.
Samuel hated that moment, hated Race seeing the loss of control in his eyes.
He pressed the muzzle of the gun into the mattress and fired, over and over, screaming obscenities that were drowned out by the noise, until the magazine was empty.
His hand burned. The sheets smelled like ozone. There was a black ragged hole in the mattress, all the way down into the box spring.
Stupid,
he told himself.
The neighbors will call the cops.
But he knew the neighbors weren't home yet. They all worked late in the city. Nobody in the condos this time of evening but a couple dozen shih tzus.
When the ringing in his ears died down, he heard the television sitcom still going in the next room, the AM radio bitching in the bathroom.
Race was curled up in the corner by the nightstand, his hands grabbing at his hair. He was shivering, a line of mucus glistening on his upper lip. When he cried, he made wet, drowning sounds.
Samuel felt his mind tearing in half.
His rage drained away, replaced by a deep protectiveness—a benevolence toward Race so strong it made him want to cut himself to prove his love.
He had tried so hard to protect his family. He had sent Race to Laurel Heights for the opportunities, not for revenge. And yet when the girl had gotten too close to Race, Samuel hadn't stopped them. He had expected them to become friends—he
wanted
it.
Then at Talia's house . . . he'd been heartbroken to learn that Race had discovered the body, that the police wanted to talk to him. Samuel didn't wish any of that on Race. Nobody should make that kind of discovery.
But at the same time, Samuel had anticipated it. He had left Talia there to be found. He had wanted Race to see her—the whore stripped of her ability to run away, to fail them, to lie. And he had spilled the girl's necklace into the blood, too, imagining that a police technician would pick it up with tweezers, watch it glimmer in the light, read the inscription.
For the first time, Samuel understood why he'd done that. He understood the pattern his subconscious had been weaving—the dark net taking shape under the tightrope.
Chadwick.
Similar Books
