Crap. It’s well after four now, and Dad and Holly will be home any minute. I shove the business cards back in the folder and finger through the various documents inside the manila folder for one last look before I sneak this sucker back into the garage where it belongs. Toward the bottom of the stack, a name catches my attention on one of the papers from the hospital. I do a double take. There are so many papers in the folder that I’d taken it for granted that they were all Holly and Mindy’s records from the attack, but on the paper in question, it says JENNINGS, DARREN under the patient’s name. The paper is crumpled and spotted in dried blood. First his dad’s business cards and now Darren’s medical records?
What could Mindy’s attack possibly have to do with Darren’s? They have to be connected—or Dad thinks they are—otherwise they wouldn’t be in the folder together. I’d never looked this closely at the paperwork. The last time I snuck the file out of its place in Dad’s tool box, I ran into the police report of Holly’s statement. I think I cried for about ten minutes before I gave up on looking at the rest and put the folder back. I couldn’t tell Grandma why I was crying, so I just ran up to my room and told her that boys are stupid. I think she bought it, because she came up to tell me that any boy who makes me cry isn’t worth the time it takes to shed a single tear. I wanted to tell her the truth. I needed to talk to someone about what I read, but she would have snitched on me to my dad.
Why would someone want to hurt Mindy like that?
Why would someone want to hurt anyone like that?
Maybe I’m just stupid, but I didn’t know that stuff like this could happen in my town. Dad always says the club takes care of their own and the town belongs to the club, so that means that we’re safe here and I don’t have to worry about anything. But that’s a lie, because if someone can hurt Mindy Mercer like that for no reason, then nobody is safe. Not even the daughter of a Forsaken club member.
“Fuck!” Dad shouts, scaring the crap out of me. “I hate that fucking thing. Next time it ho ho ho’s at me, I’m shooting it. Don’t care how much you like it.”
“Don’t blame Santa for recognizing a ho when he sees one,” Holly says with a giggle.
“You’re in for it, woman!” Dad says loudly and with a disgruntled tone.
My eyes widen and my heart skips a beat. His voice is distant and muffled. I scurry to the hallway to find that the front door is shut, and Dad’s head bobs on the other side of the glass pane. His keys jingle as he works the lock.
“Do me a favor and just once act like a gentleman!” Holly says, her voice high and full of irritation.
The door creaks open, and the alarm beeps as he grumbles, “You sure didn’t want me to act like a gentleman when I bent you over the kitchen table last night.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh. “Be good and I’ll let you bend me over our bed tonight.”
I back away from the hallway and rush to the breakfast nook and vow to never eat at the table again. My hands reach for the manila envelope, and just as I’m about to grab it and run, I cringe.
“So freaking gross,” I whine as I shuffle the papers into the manila folder as best I can and scoop them up from the defiled kitchen table. “No freaking boundaries. I need to move out like right the hell now.”
Dad’s heavy boots clap against the wooden floor in the hall, growing nearer as I round the living room and run down the side hall to the garage where I slowly turn the knob and slip inside. Across the garage, in a tall red tool chest, is Dad’s stash of folders that have information on cases that are of interest to the club. He doesn’t keep many paper files, not around the house at least, except when he’s in the thick of an investigation. A few years back there was a series of car break-ins around town. Nothing really went missing, and the club didn’t care much, but then Aunt Ruby’s Suburban got hit, and Uncle Jim got the club involved. Dad said either the club was going to figure it out or Aunt Ruby was going to start shooting people who look suspicious. I don’t think they ever did find the people responsible, but while they were looking into it, Dad had about twenty manila folders stashed in various drawers. If there’s one thing Dad hates more than teenage boys, it’s probably unsolved mysteries.
I shove the folder back in the third drawer down and sneak toward the partially open door. Holly’s voice trails from the living room but is soon overshadowed by several deep, masculine voices that are undeniably familiar. Uncle Wyatt’s baritone bark demands a beer from Dad, who then redirects, asking Holly to grab beers for the guys. My palms grow slick as my heart rate picks up. Nervously, I eye the old refrigerator in the corner of the garage where Dad keeps his expansive supply of cold beer for when the guys come by.
“Sure thing,” Holly says. Her high-heeled boots make pointed little clicking noises that get louder with every step she takes closer to the garage. Once she hits the hallway, her steps falter. “Are we expecting anyone else?”
“Baby Boy should be by any minute,” Wyatt says.
Dad makes an unflattering noise. “Babe, keep Chey in her room while the guys are here. Last thing I need is her distracting the kid any more than she already does.”
“Fuck if that ain’t right,” Duke says. “She blows up his phone, and he can’t stop fucking smiling. Doesn’t hear a word I say either.”