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Not after what he’d already done for me.
I had to wait until Drew introduced me to a very boring couple who wanted me to feature their dog on the walls of the bakery in return for donating some table linens. Then I shot off into the dark kitchen and out the back door.
Of course, exactly what I had fucking thought was happening was happening.
I saw two dark figures at the end of the alleyway. The narrow alleyway outside of the bakery only went to a dead end, so as a result it was ill-lit and rarely traveled.
But I’d know one of those dark figures anywhere. The one beating the shit out of the big, ham-faced man on the ground. I heard the low, methodical sound of Torin’s fist. Rib by rib, breaking each one.
Jerald was slumped against the wall, leaving a long smear of blood as he fell closer and closer to the ground.
I didn’t think he was conscious, but I still hissed at my brother.
“Stop!”
Torin immediately stopped and turned to look at me as I ran up to him.
“Do not kill him!” I hissed.
I could see him faintly in the distant streetlight. There was a splash of blood on his cheek.
“You are not going back to jail under my watch!” I whispered angrily. “Go take him somewhere else and I’ll clean this up.”
“All right, sister,” he said, and he hauled the big prone form of Jerald up, lifting him easily and carrying him silently down the alleyway.
I darted back into the kitchen to grab my cleaning supplies and then I was back out in the alleyway, washing the blood off of the walls. I gritted my teeth, hoping Jerald wasn’t dead. I owned a cupcake business. Lived on 3 Honeysuckle Lane. And here I was scrubbing blood from the walls because of my goddamn brother.
But he wasn’t going back to prison.
Not on my fucking watch.
Not again.
Torin came up as I was finishing.
“Where did you put him?” I asked.
He stood behind me, only inches from me. If I leaned back slightly my back would hit his broad chest.
“In a dumpster,” he said.
“Is he alive?” I snapped, my back aching from stooping over the bloodstains.
“Yes,” Torin said. “You told me not to kill him, Lele.”
I whirled around.
“Dad. . .” I said, and then I stopped.
Torin waited, a slice of moonlight across his harsh face, the dark blackness of his eyes matching the dark of the sky.
What could I say? He had killed Dad. Murdered him in cold blood. I had forced myself to read the news reports. They said Torin had stabbed him in stages. The detectives said it looked like Dad had died slowly, and the physical evidence at the scene showed that my brother had sat in a chair and watched as Dad died, slowly and painfully, in front of him. There were cigarette butts littered around the scene and our father’s body was marked with dozens of burns.
What could I say to that? I said the only thing I could think of.
“Thank you.”
I felt my skin flush so hot that I was squeezed tight, like I would burst out of my own flesh.
