The crowd roars when Jay exits with Gideon behind, and he waves, approaching the first Roadies holding phones and albums out for the chance at an autograph. He hears his name called: “Jay Rhodes! Jay!” Over and over. It’s easy to smile and take selfies, as Jay’s been doing this for most of his adult life, butafter fifteen minutes, Jay waves goodbye, and they’re on their way to the car.
“Thank you for coming today. You made my day…maybe my life, even.”
Jay can’t help but smile, but takes her proffered hand. “We had a great time. See you next time, yeah?”
“I’d love that. Have a great rest of your day.” She waves as she heads back the way she came.
They push out into the late afternoon heat, and Gideon starts the Buick with the remote before they exit, so the interior will cool before they get in—and maybe to be sure there isn’t another car bomb. Fuck, what is his life right now?
The Buick is where they left it in the quiet lot behind WRBY, and the absence of sound makes the ringing in Jay’s ears from the loud crowds more noticeable. Something cold and sick coils in his gut as the familiar “Junior” catches his attention.
Jay may no longer recognize his father in that haggard face, but his voice is embedded into his psyche forever. His heart pounds in his chest, and where there should be relief that his father isn’t dead, he can only stand there—horrified.
James Rhodes Sr. looks like the walking dead.Shouldbe dead. Gray skin pulled taut over broad cheekbones, cracked lips curled back from blackened teeth—he’s more skeletal ghoul than the once-formidable boxing instructor he’d been. Even his once-lustrous black hair is patchy, falling away in uneven tufts. He’s a shadow of the man Jay once knew, and somehow, that’s worse than believing he died in the car bomb.
“Holy fucking shit,” Gideon growls.
“Junior,” James says again, and steps toward them.
Jay wants to take a step back—to move away from the grotesque mockery that was once his father—but he feels Gideon’s warmth behind him and can stand his ground.
“Fuck, Dad? I thought you were—”
“Dead?” James laughs bitterly. “He can’t kill me—he needs me.”
“But Mom? What about her?” Jay feels anger surge, and his scent surpasses his scent patch and blazes into a forest fire. “Whatever shit you got into, Dad? It got her killed.”
“Me? It’s you. She should have kept her mouth shut. She was trying to leave me at the golf club, you know? Decided to take you up on your offer of sanctuary. Can you believe that? After all we’d done for her.”
The disgust on his father’s face—even after thirty years of marriage—makes Jay sick.
His mother died trying to get away. She had decided to let Jay help her.
Fucking hell. He’d let that wound scab over—lulled by the happiness of the afternoon, the illusion of a good day.
And now this.
“What do you mean, James?” Gideon grates out. “Who is we?”
“Your father, Allistair. He’s so generous, helped us out of a little bind, financially speaking.” James grins, breath reeking of decay. “But now, with the bomb, I’ve got nowhere to go. I think it’s best if they think I’m dead already, don’t you? That’s why I came to see you, son.”
He reaches out a hand, and Jay flinches—finally allowing himself that half-step back.
He’s surprised to hear himself say, “You need to go to the police and tell them everything. I can help you.”
“Help me?!” James gives a wet, rattling chuckle. “It’s me who can help you. If you can get me out of Florida, I’ll tell you everything—enough to bring down his entire house of cards.”
“Dad, you’re wanted by the police—” Jay says again.
“I’ll do it, you fucking bastard. But you have to give me something in good faith,” Gideon interrupts. “Tell me where he is, and I will get you out of Florida in one piece.”
No. Jay can’t let Gideon sell his soul for information—not when his father would most likely lie and cheat.
“Gid, no…”
James licks his lips with his purpling tongue and rubs his hands together. “I figured you might. You’re as smart as your dear old dad. He’s in an ugly-ass fortress in the Island Estates area. If you want the address, you’ll have to get me on a plane.”
Jay knows the house—you can’t miss it. Fifteen years ago, it made headlines for looking more like Dracula’s castle than a Floridian retreat. But right now, the image won’t come to him, like someone’s drawn a curtain over the memory.
