I met his gaze, not blinking. “You think I don’t know that? I never hurt anyone before, and I’m not about to start now.”
He held it for a second longer, then sat back.
“You got anything else to say?” I asked, voice soft.
Damon’s mouth twisted. “Nope. Just always wondered how you sleep at night, that’s all.”
Walker tried to deflect. “Come on, Damon?—”
But Damon cut him off, voice tight. “You ever think about what you did, Ford? About the kid who’s not here because of you?”
My hand tightened around my cards, but I kept my voice steady. “You know what happened that night. You were there. Everyone saw us fight, and everyone saw me leave first.”
He sneered. “I remember Ty better than you do, I bet. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve to die in a ditch.”
Something inside me snapped.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, the words tasting like rust. “If you think I did, say it. Don’t just skirt around it.”
Damon leaned in, eyes narrow. “Whole town thinks it, not just me.”
Mason slammed his beer down. “Enough, man. You don’t have to be an asshole.”
Damon ignored him, still locked in on me. “This asshole’s been living and breathing and gettin’ rich for the past twenty years on the back of a goddamn murder.”
My vision swam. The edges of the room went blurry. I could hear the cards, the click of chips, the faint buzz of the fridge, but it all sounded a hundred miles away.
Suddenly, I was back on the deck that night. Ty, red-faced and yelling. The cold wind. The sound of glass breaking. The muffled scream. And then my father’s fist, wild and heavy, connecting with my eye. Ty on the ground, blood pooling on the concrete. The rush of the creek, swallowing everything.
I blinked, sweat prickling my forehead. The room went silent.
In front of me, Damon’s face wavered, then resolved into something almost—almost—sympathetic.
I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight, and my hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the cards.
Walker reached over, clapping my back, too hard. “Hey. You good?”
I nodded, but it was a lie.
I needed air. I stood up, mumbled something about needing the bathroom, and made my way down the hall. My hands didn’t stop shaking.
In the hallway mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like my father.
For the first time since I’d been back, I wished I’d stayed gone.
I pressed my palms against the sink, stared into the glass, and let the memory crash over me, full and raw and real.
Blood on my hands.
The rush of the creek.
Ty’s voice, forever gone.
Outside, the guys kept playing.
Inside, I was drowning.
I gripped the sink until my knuckles went white. The cold tap was stiff, and the water that finally burst out was icy, numbing my hands and face. For a while, I just stared at the blur of my own reflection. I tried to find my father’s features in there, tried to trace the outline of the monster I never wanted to see in myself. But the mirror only showed a tired, hollow-eyed man.
