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Chapter Five
Lilly has completely withdrawn.
I brought her to my room, despite it facing the front of the house and our reporter stalker, Lancaster, being camped out underneath my window. The dude has not left his post in days. At this point, I'm convinced he has a LuggableLoo in the back of his tinted SUV. He is careful not to set foot on our property, but his fucking camera is permanently angled toward my window. It's beyond me what he expects to record.
She curled up on her side on top of my comforter before I fully closed the blinds, saluting Bomber Jacket in the process. I lower myself to the edge of the bed and carefully place my hand on her hip. "Babe?"
Staring blankly ahead, she doesn't respond. A dull pain forms in my chest. This is worse than when she found out whatever my father did to her—lethappen to her.
She almost appears catatonic, and I have no clue what to do. I rub my free hand against my jeans. "Babe, what happened? Please talk to me."
Still, no answer. I’m this close to getting on my hands and knees and start begging.
Fuck.
Do I call Nate? He'll immediately dispatch George to extract his sister. His stance on all of this is clear. George wants Lilly to stay, but in the end, he works for Nate. He'll do whatever his orders are.
What the hell could've happened in the eight minutes it took me to get dressed? The tablet! Lilly read something on the federal douche's iPad. With one more glance at her, I place a gentle kiss on her temple and whisper, "Be right back."
Nothing.
Unsure what I'm going to find but determined to get answers, I take the stairs three steps at a time. I'm in the kitchen and grab the device that's still where Lilly left it. My parents and the federal wastes of oxygen are where they were a few minutes ago, talking in hushed voices. As I reach for the iPad, Mom's gaze jerks to me. "Rhys!"
I have no idea if she's admonishing me for taking the guy's property without saying pretty please or if she doesn't want me to see what’s on there. It's a news article. I'm able to read the headline before it disappears from my grasp. I level my father, who is now holding the device in his hand.
"What the fuck is this?" I attempt to take it back, but Dad just throws it at its owner, who catches it with an oof sound. "Dad?" I growl. My fists curl into themselves, and my nails dig into my palms. I've shown less and less respect toward my father, and I wouldn't be surprised if he snapped soon.
"Let him read it, Tristen," Agent Camden speaks up, and I peer at her.
"Vivian!" My mother tries to insert herself.
"She's right. This impacts all of us, Rhys just as much as Lilly, even though they try to put the spotlight on my daughter." I don't miss how Dad claims Lilly as his, and a rush of adrenaline bursts through my body.
Is it possible our family is not as broken as I thought it was?
"Sit," my father orders, and I reluctantly comply. I need to know what is on that screen. His head swivels to Agent Mouthbreather. "Give it to him."
Lanning stares incredulously, like he wants to say, "You just threw the damn thing at me," but he doesn't have the balls to use his actual voice to follow through.
Dad cocks an eyebrow at the clearly inferior man, and the iPad is back in my hand before I can suppress the snort building in my throat. Could this guy be a bigger joke?
I scan the article in front of me, but it's like my brain has shut down. I don't comprehend the words and have to read it twice before it sinks in. There is only one person who could be the reliable source. Right about now, she can thank the Lord that she has a fucking pussy, or she would be in the hospital, eating through a straw, by the end of the day. My grip is so tense that the plastic case around the device crackles.
Dad pries Lanning's tablet from my fingers, and my hands instantly curl back into tight fists. My entire body is shaking, and I can't make out my mother's words through the pounding in my ears. Jumping up from my chair, I kick the one beside mine across the kitchen, where it crashes into the island.
"RHYS!" My father's commanding tone finally penetrates the red haze. I clasp my hands on the top of my head and turn away from the audience. I need to get a grip. The urge to punch the drywall across from me is taking over my senses. I'm ready to take the three steps it would require to turn the kitchen and living room divider into my next victim when a band of steel wraps itself around my upper body. Dad immobilizes me with his arms.
The man is strong for his age.
"You need to calm down, son!"
I struggle against his hold until my father says the three words that can deflate my rage. "Lilly needs you!"
Stopping my fight, I sag against his chest, giving him all the power. He instantly releases me, and I crouch down, trying to get my labored breathing under control.
A hand lands on my shoulder. "Go upstairs and take care of her. We'll talk later." These last few days, my father has shown more emotion than in the previous years—hell, the last decade. I follow his order without a second glance back.
Was his behavior also connected to all of this?
