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Uncle Josiah nods. “Did you tell them who you were?”
“No. I only gave them the address and left.”
“Good.” He nods a few more times.
“I thought they’d see me as a suspect, so that’s why I ran. I know it was dishonorable of me to leave Papa there, but—”
“You did good,” Uncle Josiah interjects. “Now tell me what happened.”
“I … found Papa lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood,” I mutter, shivering when I’m reminded of the scene.
Uncle Josiah takes me to the bed and sits me down. “What type of wound?”
“Gunshot. For sure,” I reply, and I immediately grab my stomach as if I was the one who got shot.
“Anything else?”
“Some bruises.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the sick rise again. “He was pretty beaten up.”
“Did they take anything? Whoever it was,” he asks.
“Not that I could tell. It was just … ransacked. And there was a—” I swallow away the lump in my throat. “The Zippo.”
“What about it?”
I hold it up in my hand and glare at it. I wanna crush this thing with my bare hands. Set it on fire and melt away with it. “This … this was there, on the counter.” I hand the lighter over to him. “But I’ve… seen it before on the ground at the Burrell farm when I went to visit the other day,” I lie.
I hesitate to tell my uncle the truth. I can’t face my own guilt.
He takes a good look at the Zippo. “This is one of your papa’s Zippos, isn’t it?”
I nod, rubbing my lips, unsure of what to tell him and wondering if I can even trust anyone at this point.
Uncle Josiah narrows his eyes. “The Burrells … you think they did this?”
“Yes,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I know for sure.” I pull out the note Ben and Danny left for me and hand it to my uncle. “Look.”
His eyes glaze over it. “I see …” Then he hands it back to me as if it means little to him even though it means a lot to me.
“If Ben and Danny hadn’t found that Zippo from my papa’s shop on their farm, Papa would still be alive,” I say through gritted teeth while glaring at my own feet. I can’t look him in the eye right now and face what I’ve done like a goddamn man.
“Look at me, Brandon,” my uncle says, and I do. “If you’re sure they’re the ones who killed your papa, they will pay.”
He walks off into the bathroom, and I’m left staring at his back, wondering what he means by that.
“How?” I ask.
He fishes his cell phone from his pocket and starts calling some numbers without answering me. I remain seated on the bed and continue staring at the lighter, thinking about my actions over and over again. If I hadn’t gone to see Dixie, none of this would’ve happened. My papa would still be alive.
She saw me, and that implicates me. She knows I was the one who started that fire. And she’s the only one who knows that Zippo belongs to me.
Did she tell her dad? Her brothers?
Is that why they came for my papa? To get revenge for the burned down farmhouse?
The more I stare at the Zippo, the angrier I get.
This is all her doing.
There’s no other way. No one else knew I was there.
Fuck.
Fuck her.
Fuck the Burrells.
How dare they fucking go to my papa’s shop and murder him in cold blood? Does burning someone’s drugs equal taking a human life? Fuck them and the fucking horse they rode in on.
And fuck Dixie for being the sole reason my papa is dead. I fucking hate her to death.
I chuck the Zippo so hard it ricochets off the wall and ends up under the bed. Good fucking riddance.
“Don’t,” Uncle Josiah says after he’s come back from the bathroom, and he plucks the Zippo out from underneath. It’s covered in dust, which he blows off. “You don’t wanna leave evidence around everywhere.”
“Right,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.
“It’s okay. You’re a big man now. You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.” He pats my back and tucks the Zippo into my hands. “Now … let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask, as he opens the door.
“To the Burrells.” A dirty, wicked smile spreads across his lips. “We’ve got a score to settle.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Dixie
Present
His dad … was murdered?
By my brothers?
No, that can’t be true. It can’t be.
I shake my head. “No, that’s not possible.”
“Yes, it is, and you know it,” he growls, practically shaking. “Admit it, Dixie. Just fucking admit it.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head again. “It’s not possible.”
“Stop fucking lying!” he yells. “Always with the fucking lies. Enough is enough. Admit it’s your fucking fault that he died. You gave them the Zippo.”
But that’s just it.
