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“Yes, I understand.”
“Good,” I tap his cheek, “You will be our little bitch for the time being, and you will never speak to Catalina Scott again. Do you understand that as well?”
“Yes...”
I study him for a few seconds before releasing him from the chains and helping him to stand up, “Damn, you look like shit. Go upstairs and clean yourself up before you leave.” Rob wastes no time hobbling up the staircase as we watch him.
“Do you think that's wise,” Oak questions, “Letting him go like that?”
I turn back to my friend, “What would you have done? We can't afford to have dead bodies in this house...never in the house, remember?”
“I know this, Jett, but still. That fucker deserved more than what he got, especially after the plans he had for Kitty Cat!”
“Hey, calm down. I know this, and if we didn't have this other fucker to catch, Date Rape Rob would have gotten more than he did. We need more eyes and ears, Oak. Hopefully, these fuckers will slip up soon because I'm telling you now, the people I've had on it haven't come up with anything.”
I watch my friend sigh and then pinch the bridge of his nose, “I know, my guys too,” he explodes, “How are they getting away from us?”
“I ask myself that time and again, man. I'm going to visit my father today,” I tell him, and his head snaps up, “Yeah, I know. I'm desperate, bro. Maybe he can shed some more light on all of this.”
“I doubt it, Jett. I think our fathers did something fucked up back in their day, and they don't want us to know about it.” Oakley starts heading toward the stairs.
“What's worse than fucking people up, being the brawn behind every beating that happened at that time?” I ask him, causing him to stop.
“That's exactly what we need to find out.” He turns and walks upstairs, leaving me here to think about his words.
Our fathers weren't bad people; they protected what needed protection and weren't afraid to use whatever force was necessary. It's how they still are and how we were raised. We show no fear because we have no fear, but there are still things you do not do; you don't cross certain lines. Rob crossed one of those lines by planning on drugging a female, and not just any female, but ours.
We repent because ofall the sinning we do throughout the week, but seeing these people who don't have a warm bed or enough food and have to depend on others for help is exhausting. There is no shame with them; they do what needs to be done to survive another day. They leave me in awe each time they smile and thank me, but still, I'd rather just go to hell, knowing that we are only doing this to make us feel better. Not that the one good deed we do on Sundays will earn us a golden ticket through the heavenly gate, but it helps us deal with some of the fucked-up shit we do.
After the lunch shift at the soup kitchen, I head to my father's house. I know he's home because it's Sunday, and it's his day to sit at home and relax all day, but I'm about to fuck that all up. We always get into arguments when we come together; it's why I avoid him like the plague. It's been this way ever since my mother passed away five years ago due to cancer. It's been just the two of us ever since, and I can't figure out why our relationship is so sour because of it.
The big house is mostly quiet when I walk in; the man doesn't even have a fucking dog to keep him company. The only noise comes from a television in the distance, and I know he's most likely in the family room watching a football game.
Moving forward, I'm just about to the room when I stop abruptly. My father's voice booms over the television; he's on the phone talking to someone. I creep a little closer because whatever it is, it has my father in a state that I have never seen him in before.
“It can't be due to that situation, can it?” My father's voice is a little frantic, “We didn't do anything but what we were told to do, and that was to hold them. We were young, for fuck's sake!” I see his shadow as he passes by the door, “Besides, didn't they pass away?” There is a pause, then he says, “Suicide is still passing away! Dead is dead, so who the fuck is sending the letters, Jakob?”
I jerk back at his statement. He's talking to Fynn's father about the threats. So this does have to do with something that happened when they were in school. But why now? Why wait all these years to get payback? I only stay long enough to hear the rest of the conversation, which isn't much longer, and then I back away. I'm no longer interested in talking with my father as I leave the house quietly, then head back to the Frat House.
Oakley is in the living room watching a game, probably the same one my father was watching. I wasn't paying attention while I was there. He lifts his fist as I walk by, and I bump it with my own.
“So, how did it go with Daddio? You weren't there very long.” Oakley says without taking his eyes off the television.
“That's because he didn't know I had stopped by,” I sit in the spot beside my friend on the couch, and I'm swarmed with groupies. I have no clue where they even came from; it's like they lurk in the shadows, waiting for one of us to arrive. “Uh, excuse me? Do you mind getting the fuck out?” I growl at the five females that have made themselves at home around us.
Some scramble away instantly, but two of them are slow and move toward Oakley, “Are you fucking deaf? I believe he said to get the fuck out.” My friend's glare at the remaining two has the desired effect, and they follow their three friends out.
“Anyway,” I continue once I know we are alone, “I overheard my father on the phone with Fynn's father. I believe they know why they may be receiving the threats but not who is sending the letters.”
“Well, that doesn't make sense,” Oakley frowns and forgets all about the game, “If they know why, then how can they not know who?”
“My father mentioned something about the person, or persons, being deceased, something about suicide.” I think back, trying to remember the whole conversation I heard, “Oh, and he said something, that they were made to hold them. That's all I got before he hung up. I left the house immediately and came home.”
“Well, at least we know where to start then,” Oak states as he turns his attention back to the game.
“Yeah, maybe if we find out who all died by suicide since our fathers were in college, then we can narrow it down.” I nod.
Oakley glances at me once again, “Exactly.”
