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“That wasn’t his choice to make!”
“He wasn’t always in his right mind,” Daze adds. My chest pangs, and I don’t know whether to feel grateful or insulted. He’s dancing around voicing one phrase in particular.“He was unhinged. Crazy.”
Father has no trouble saying as much.
“You didn’t know him!” Any anger I might feel dies the longer he holds my gaze.
That look in his eye is back with a vengeance. Fear bites at the back of my mind. I knew Hale was in a rough place—but just how rough was it?
“Tell me.”
“He was paranoid,” Daze admits. “He came to see me about a hunch he had. It was crazy shit. Conspiracy shit. He thought your father might have been rubbing shoulders with the kind of men who, let’s just say, aren’t ‘holy’ in the slightest—”
“Why would he come to you and not the police? Why not me?” I demand. Hale had issues with Father, but that sounds a step too far.
“The police wouldn’t do shit, even if it were true,” Daze growls, his hostility apparent. “I didn’t believe him at first, but I hate anything involving Michael Heywood, so I played along. I’ll be honest, your brother wasn’t the sanest crayon in the box, but he was smart as fuck. I’m starting to think he might have gotten some shit right after all.”
“Like what?” The suspense is killing me, but Daze seems determined to extend it.
“You have issues against your father. Magnify that times a million, and you’ll have a faint idea of how your brother felt. He only wanted to protect you—”
“From you?” I counter, recalling Hale’s written message.
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
I stiffen, my throat clenching around a hard swallow. “So…isthis the part where you profess some vendetta and pledge to use me against Father?”
Daze raises an eyebrow—or as much as he can. That simple expression shouldn’t be enough to dispel the dread creeping up my throat. It shouldn’t.
“Well, fucking you could have been a cheap shot at him—I can admit that.” He grimaces—the extent of his apparent guilt. “But it wasn’t. I don’t care if you believe me or not. And I know I’ll sound as crazy as Hale if I try to explain everything to you. I’ll show you instead. You have my word on that. Just let me… Get my shit together first.”
Grimacing, he gestures to his head.
“So, what do you expect me to do? Sit here patiently while you bleed out?”
He shrugs and fingers a lock of his bloody, matted hair. “Right now? I could use a fucking haircut. But first some painkillers.”
TWELVE
“Ow!Are you trying to take my goddamn ear off?” Daze jerks out of my reach, scowling at the scissors in my hand. “Go easy on me, baby. I’m already injured.Easy.”
“You could always do this yourself,” I croak. “I didn’t ask for this.”
My horror isn’t faked. There’s blood everywhere. On the floor. On my hands. His shirt is nearly scarlet, and the wadded-up washcloth he has pressed to the wound is already damp.
“You should really get stitches before I cut anymore,” I suggest, starting to withdraw.
“No.” Shaking his head, he inches back within my reach. “Keep going. I’ll live. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish around blood.”
I should tell him exactly that. Still, a rebellious part of me reacts to his tone. “No,” I lie.
Warily, I finger a blood-soaked lock of sandy-blond hair before centering it between the scissors’ blades and cutting.Snip.They join the growing pile of shorn blond locks scattered on the floor.
We’re in his tiny bathroom—and I’m baffled as to how the both of us fit in here at the same time. Seated on a rickety plastic chair, Daze faces forward while I trim another piece of his hair.
Nostalgia should be the last thing I feel in this moment. It finds me anyway, and a memory unfurls, one I’d nearly forgotten. I cut Hale’s hair once.
We were in his bathroom the night before his acceptance ceremony. He was maybe fifteen… Sixteen. I was twelve or thirteen.
