The faded Chevy Caprice looked defeated, faded Dead Head stickers studding the back window and bumper. The trailer behind it was equally beat up. There were paint cans, a stagnant dish for a dog, the wafting odor of dog crap from behind a little wooden fence, a torn ladybug banner that said Summer!, and rusted wind chimes. I bet the inside of the car would smell like pot.
I felt under the wheel wells, letting my fingers sweep the mud spatter. Duckwalked across the front bumper, feeling under the edge again, legs trembling with the effort. Under the back bumper, tucked over the muffler, my fingers closed around the flat box. I pulled out the magnetic key-hide box. Unlocked the car and threw the backpack in. I fell into the seat. Didn’t smell pot but did smell rancid fast food. Grease-stained, brightly colored bags littered the car floor.
I cranked the engine and backed out.
No one made a peep. The dog didn’t even bark.
I drove onto the street, trying to remember the route Michael had taken, searching for any familiar sign or road number. I kept driving and saw a sign for the major thruway that bisected the city.
“Yes,” I hissed. Floored the accelerator and chugged onto the highway.
Sunlight gleamed on the hood.
Once over the bridge, I threaded through other cars, slowing only when I saw how fast I was going.
I exited the Mercer High School ramp and wove onto Dean, racing past the building supply store and fast-food joints.
“Come on. Come on.”
I tried not to think about my dad’s threat. Tried not to think about his buddies. If he’d hurt Janie or let them hurt her.
Tried not to think about what was going to happen when I got there.
I had the backpack. It would be enough.
The tires squealed as I took the last corner too fast. I laid tread, black marks weaving behind me as I yanked the wheel over. I cut the engine, grabbed the backpack, and bailed. Ran across the dirt yard and was at the top of the porch in one leap.
The door opened before I touched it.
My breath and heart competed with each other to see which could go faster.
My father smiled from inside the door, welcoming me with a sweep of his hand. “Jason. Just in time.”
A trickle of sweat stung my eyes. The backpack dangled by my leg. I hovered on the doorstep, unable to move, unable to make myself go inside.
“Come in.” My father took a step closer, and I could smell the beer and cigarettes lifting from the pores of his skin. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Janie.
I stepped forward. Made myself take another step. Walked over the threshold and past my father and the door. My eyes searched for Janie.
Fell on Cyndra and Michael instead, seated together at one end of the couch.
Janie hugged herself at the other end.
“I was just talking to your friends.” My father closed the door behind me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
My lungs heaved. My father blocked the door, weight balanced between the balls of his feet, standing with his arms slightly out. Not a good sign. That stance can flow in any direction and the hands even faster.
I glanced at his eyes. They had that look, that murderous, psychopathic glint. If anyone in Michael’s crew ever saw it, they’d never call me Ice again.
“Michael?” I eased toward him and the sofa, legs weak from running and adrenaline. Cyndra’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face splotchy. The bandage on her arm was stained slightly. Her eyes darted around the room. Kept snagging on Michael, watching him like he was nitroglycerin.
She was terrified of him. Of where she was and what was going to happen next.
Michael glared at me. Half-smile in a pissed-off hover over his lips. Shaking his head like The nerve of you.
Standing over Janie, almost looking protective, was a tattooed member of my father’s group. The only other person there.
Janie didn’t look up.
“What’s going on?” I asked Michael, stopping between him and my father.
“Thought you’d be smarter than to come here, after what you pulled.” Michael’s voice was detached, musing like he was interested in the mental processes of an insect.
“What?” I asked.
I heard the creak of the floor. My father hit the back of my head with his open palm, hard enough to be both a warning and an omen.
I cursed and slid back, rubbing my head. I tossed the backpack on the floor at his feet. “Here, you two fight over it.”
My father had the backpack in his hand before Michael could even speak. He threw it to the tattooed man.
“This all you got?” my dad asked. “’Cause Michael says you have a whole lot more.”
“I should’ve done it without him,” Michael interrupted, gesturing to the backpack as he stood. “I had to leave a second one behind when your idiot son started shooting up the place.”
What was he doing? My eyes ricocheted between them.
This wasn’t about helping me with my father.
Wasn’t even about the thrill of getting away with murder.
This was something else.
“Shut up,” my father said to Michael. “Whiny little shit. Your boy Dwight said you needed him.”
“We’re square after this, though. Right? We’re square now.” Michael eased closer to my father.
It bolt-shot through my mind.
“Sure. We’ll be square.” Laughing to underscore the sarcasm.
There was no Cesare.
The realization shifted, a tangle of razor-edged hooks. Snarled and suddenly shaken free, scalpel barbs piercing into my mind and lungs.
The knowledge stabbed, twisted, and lodged there.
There was no Cesare.
Because my father was Cesare.
Everything Michael had said had been about my father. Michael’s day spent drinking and gambling with his stepbrother after dropping Cyndra and her mom off for their trip.
My dad’s shift. The airport strip club.
It had all started there.
Drugs, debt, and Michael’s inflated opinion of himself had deepened it. Everything had happened like he’d said.
It just hadn’t happened with the antagonist he’d painted.
Same story, different villain.
And now a different ending. Because it had never been about squaring with Cesare. Never been about getting free, or getting away, or wiping the slate clean.