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Max
I pull into the driveaway of my house later that evening, peering left and right to make sure I haven’t been followed. I’ve been out all day, trying to avoid my dad, trying to figure out what the hell my next steps are, wondering if Nico got any more information that he’s planning to hold over my head. But after hours of avoiding shit I can’t change and that face-off with Sloane’s dad, I had the urge to go home and drown myself in a Jack Daniels bath.
I slam the door of the truck shut and jog up the back steps, turning the key in the lock. I walk inside the darkened kitchen. “Dad?”
It’s silent, though. No television, no stereo. Just an eerie quiet that makes the hair on my arms stand at attention.
I creep into the living room. One lamp is turned on, but it doesn’t give off much light. I glance to the side of the room where the sofa is set against the wall. My dad is stretched out on it, face-up like a corpse, his hands folded on his chest. My heart thumps a little harder as I approach, tiptoeing over the hardwood floor. I clench my teeth every time one of the boards creak under my weight. With stilted breaths, I scour the room, glancing back over my shoulder. The door was locked, so nobody could have broken in, right? A whish of air blows through the blinds at the front of the room and an icy sensation crawls through my insides.
Fuck. The windows. Why the hell would they be open right now in the dead of winter?
Dead of winter.
Bad choice of word.
I twist around and grab a fireplace poker, just in case. There were no cars out front that I noticed, but it’s not like I was anticipating a break-in. I figured they’d just wait until my dad left the house to whack him, just like they got Jackie Junior on that episode of The Sopranos. They shot him in the back of the head. Broad daylight. And he went face-down in a pile of snow.
Exactly the reason why I’ve made him lay low. I don’t want a personalized Jackie Junior scene in my front fucking yard.
I raise the poker behind me, ready to attack if I need to, and I bend over my dad. There are no visible gunshots and no streaks of blood that say he was tortured, but hey, this is the mafia. They have ways, very fucking murderous ways.
I lean closer. No rope marks on his neck means he wasn’t strangled.
His chest doesn’t move, his eyes don’t flutter.
I let out a shaky breath. What if one of his broken ribs punctured something that the Doc didn’t catch? What if there was internal bleeding? Christ, what if he drowned in his own fucking blood?
I swallow hard, my hand over his pale face, poised to feel his skin. A floorboard creaks behind me and I gasp, spinning around with the poker in my hand, ready to strike. A loud crash makes me yelp, and I pull out my gun, cocking it. I move toward the kitchen, slowly and quietly.
I know I locked the back door.
Didn’t I?
Was someone outside, just waiting for me to get home so they could take us both out at once?
Did I just sign my own death certificate by forgetting to lock the goddamn door?
I flip on the kitchen light and crouch behind the island in the center of the room. I pull out my iPhone and stare at it. Who the hell should I even call? Before I even finish dialing a number, I could be dead, for Christ’s sake. Another creak sends me leaping into the air, pointing the gun right at my father’s face.
His hands fly above his head. “Max! What the hell are you doing?”
“Dad?” I put the gun on the counter and lean back, pushing back my hair. “I thought you were fucking dead! You looked like you were lying in a coffin a few seconds ago!”
“That’s always how I sleep.” He sinks onto one of the counter stools. “And I took an Ambien to help me rest. I guess I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You didn’t hear…” I shake my head and point to the open windows in the living room. “What the hell is the deal with those? It’s below fucking zero outside!”
Dad shrugs. “It got really warm in here, and I couldn’t figure out that thing on the wall. Whatever happened to the thermostats with the buttons? How do you fix the temperature with only a screen? I waved my hand in front of it a few times, but nothing happened. I was roasting, so I opened a couple of windows. Then I fell asleep.”
“It’s a touch screen,” I groan, collapsing against the counter, my head in my hands. “You know, for years, I wouldn’t have given a shit if you’d been left for dead somewhere. But this just freaked me the fuck out.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Dad makes a low grumbling sound as he swivels around on the stool. “Should I be flattered?”
“You should be grateful,” I mutter, reaching for the refrigerator door handle. I pull it open and grab a can of Coca-Cola from one of the shelves.
“Why is that?” Dad rubs his lower back, squeezing his eyes shut. I furrow my brow. I really hope the Doc was thorough in his exam. I wanted to take him to the emergency room and was ready to tell them that he was assaulted or some shit like that, but he insisted that he was fine, just a little banged up.
He’s more than a little banged up, but he’s also damn stubborn. It’s something I might have picked up from him over the years.
