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Penta wanted to sink to the floor and weep for the loss of innocence—both hers and Cyril’s. But she didn’t have time to fall apart. She had to get Big, Red, and Scary out of the house before her other children appeared, wondering what was going on.
“I’m sure he’s very sorry for doing such a terrible thing.” She glared at Cyril, which was less than effective since his gaze was glued to the floor. “You can be sure he’ll be suitably punished.”
“I know he will. Because he’s going to clean up the mess. And work for me until the value of the damage is paid off.”
Cyril’s head jerked up. “Am not.”
Big, Red, and Scary ignored him. Fishing in a pocket inside his coat, he pulled out a business card and handed it to Penta.
She took it automatically, noting the grime edging his fingernails, the dark lines of a tattoo covering the back of his hand. She shuddered. No way was Cyril spending any amount of time with this man, no matter what crimes he had committed. “I’m his mother. I’ll decide what punishment he deserves. As for the damages, I’ll pay them.”
He ignored her declaration as he had Cyril’s protest. “Eight o’clock at the shop. He knows where it is.” His tone was bleakly amused. “If he doesn’t come, I’m calling the cops and pressing charges.”
He opened the door, stepped into the night, and closed it behind him with quiet finality.
CASH RYLANCE CLIMBED into his pickup and stared at the house.
The conventional 1980s four-level split with double garage was painted a boring beige and tan. Streetlights illuminated a shaggy lawn with a large round garden in the middle, both starting to green now it was past the May long weekend and the weather was warming up. Inside, he’d seen school photos on the wall, a clutter of shoes on the floor, and a sport bag tossed casually by the door.
All evidence of middle-class comfort and a normal, pleasant family life.
He thumped his fist violently on the steering wheel. “Goddamn idiot.” The kid—Cyril—appeared to come from the kind of home Cash had dreamed of when he was the same age. But did he appreciate it? Not likely, given the mischief he and his buddies had been up to.
Of course, things weren’t always as they seemed. Maybe he was wrong about the panicked love he’d seen in the woman’s eyes when she’d realized her son was a vandal. Maybe the kid was acting out because of abuse or neglect. He wouldn’t lay money on that, though. More likely, he was just a jerk who didn’t know how good he had it.
Cash put the truck in reverse, rolled onto the empty road, and started back to his shop.
The image of Cyril’s mother dashing down the stairs in her pink plaid pajamas while brandishing a baseball bat played before his eyes. Her curly brown hair had been pressed flat to one side of her head and a pillow crease marked her cheek. Abundantly rounded at hips and thighs, her unbound breasts jiggling invitingly under the light fabric, her eyes had sparked with fierce lightning despite the fear he’d heard trembling in her voice.
She was a warrior, intent on protecting her young. And even though he’d been furious at her son and still reeling from the damage inflicted on his beloved shop, he couldn’t repress a stir of interest.
Not that anything could come of it. He was the last person a respectable, loving, suburban mom would look at twice.
He arrived at his shop via the back alley and parked in one of the three narrow slots. A metal staircase led up to his apartment, where peaceful solitude would greet him. Instead, he went through the door that led to the main floor.
The teens’ rampage hadn’t made it to the rear of the building, so the large room where he kept spare parts and other supplies was untouched. Who knew what havoc they would have wreaked if he didn’t live on site. He had an alarm system—it had alerted him after the sound of smashing glass had jolted him awake—but it was mainly because his insurance policy demanded it and wasn’t connected to local police or a security service. Why bother when he rarely went anywhere else and had no qualms about protecting his possessions with any actions necessary?
At the end of a short hall, he stepped into the space taking up three-quarters of the main level and his fury rose again. Light from the street glittered on thousands of shards of scattered glass. In the partially intact windows on either side of the decimated front door, star-shaped fractures sparkled like supernovas. The Honda Gold Wing and Harley Softail he’d just finished babying into smooth-running perfection sprawled on the concrete floor, surrounded by the helmets, gloves, and other accessories that had been swept off the steel display shelves.
Pain blossomed in his palms and knuckles. He’d clenched his fists so tightly his hands were cramping. Hot, terrible anger rose like a red tide from his gut to the back of his throat, demanding release. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, held it until his chest ached, and then let the air trickle out of his mouth. He repeated this several more times before he trusted himself enough to open his eyes.
He snaked his way to the corner of the shop that was the heart of his business. The 1967 Triumph Tiger Cub he had just started restoring still stood propped on its kickstand and his lovingly cared for tools were undisturbed. As he had drowned in his first haze of fury, the fact the kids hadn’t touched this area was all that had kept him from pummelling Cyril. The other four ruffians had managed to escape, but the kid had stumbled on a helmet and that tiny delay had been enough to allow Cash to grab the back of his skinny, acned neck in one hand and the ass of his baggy jeans in the other.
The boy’s terrified shrieks had broken through his wild rage. Repressing his first inclination—tossing him through one of the damaged windows—he’d reined in his temper, dragged the boy to his truck, and given him a choice—police or home. White showing around his irises, Cyril had stuttered out his address. Though he’d regained some of his bravado on the short drive, Cash could sense the panic racing under his resentful posture. The boy’s mother hadn’t looked like anyone to be frightened of, despite her weapon, and Cyril hadn’t cowered any more than expected by a teenager caught in the wrong. Still, Cash knew outwardly pleasant appearances could hide terrible secrets.
His threat to call the cops had been bullshit, anyway. He would never hand over a kid to be interrogated and manhandled by those bastards. He only wished he’d had someone to protect him from the same when he’d been that age.
No. Cleaning up the mess and doing grunt work for a few weeks would be punishment enough. Cash would make sure of it.
Chapter Two
Penta didn’t bother setting an alarm when she crawled into bed for the second time that night. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, not after her low-voiced yet contentious confrontation with Cyril.
She knew her divorce had affected her children. How could it not? Felix, the eldest, had become obsessed with getting good grades and insisted on working a part-time job, which she worried were his unnecessary efforts to replace his father as the head of the household. Delilah spent most of her time with her soccer teammates and only spoke to Penta when necessary, but since she was now fifteen this could be considered normal behaviour. Abra had been extra clingy for a long time, but had eventually reverted to her cheerful, petted, and pampered youngest child role.
Cyril had had the most dramatic and disturbing reaction. His school marks had slipped and he’d stopped hanging out with his usual group of friends, taking up with a new gang. Penta had been uneasy about these unfamiliar boys from the start, despite no firm evidence.
Still, she had no doubt who Cyril’s co-conspirators were, though he refused to name them. It wasn’t fair her son would be the only one punished simply because he’d been unfortunate enough to get caught. She’d pushed him as hard as she dared, but he’d remained tight-lipped, no matter how much she badgered. In the end she’d given up, sent him to bed, and staggered to her own room to spend the last hours of the night staring at the ceiling and wondering what she could have done differently.
