He was home.
I stood up, every muscle in my body ready for a fight.
My mother pulled her hand away, settling it back on the quilt. Her face closed up, every line hardened by years of practice.
She didn’t say another word, and neither did I.
The next round was about to begin.
He came in like a storm front—boots thudding, keys dropped so hard on the counter they left a dent, the wet stink of cigarettes and last night’s whiskey rolling off him in waves. Myfather was a big man, always had been, but years of drinking and ranch labor had settled him into a swollen, heavy shape, muscles gone to seed. His hair was cut with kitchen shears, skin cracked and gray where the sun never touched it. He wore the same work coat he’d had since before I left, stained and shiny at the elbows.
He took in the room in a single glance. The way he looked at me was the same way he’d look at a busted fence or a rabid dog—nothing but contempt and a little bit of boredom.
He ignored my mother, made straight for the whiskey on the little bar cart, spinning the top open with a practiced thumb. He downed three gulps of it before he even shrugged off his coat.
“Didn’t know we were expecting company,” he said, not bothering to look at me.
I stood, blocking the gap between him and my mom.
He grunted and pushed past me, using his shoulder, like I was just another piece of furniture.
I turned, refusing to let him get away with it. “I came to talk to you.”
He lowered himself into the recliner, which groaned in protest. He set the beer on the side table and turned on the TV, immediately flipping to the news. He kept the volume low, but loud enough to be a constant presence, his own soundtrack of chaos.
He didn’t look at my mother. Didn’t ask about how she was feeling or the trembling in her hands as she picked at the quilt. He just stared at the screen, waiting for me to make the first move.
So I did.
“What happened that night? With Ty?”
That got his attention. He turned to me, slow, a smile creeping over his face.
“Listen to yourself,” he said, grinning. “Playing detective, Ford? You always were a nosy little shit.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “What is it this time? You mad I drank your inheritance away? Or are you just here to show off that you can finally grow a beard?”
I didn’t flinch. “You were at Sucker Creek the night Ty Higgins died. You were the first one there.”
He laughed, a short barking sound. “I lived three miles from there, dumbass. The whole town was ‘first on scene’ when someone drove into the damn creek.”
I stepped closer. “Your name was in the witness statements. Some of them were written before the night was even over.”
He waved me off, reaching for his beer. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. People love gossip but no one cares ‘bout Higgins anymore.”
He was lying. I could see it in the way he wouldn’t look at me. The way his thumb kept worrying the label off the bottle.
“Why were you at the creek that night?”
He shook his head, that fake sadness plastered on his face. “It’s not a crime to help the law go a little smoother. I did what any decent citizen would.”
He glared at me, and for a second, I saw the old violence there. The same look that used to precede a belt across the mouth or a fist to the solar plexus.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I said, my voice raw.
He snorted. “You always were a bad liar.”
He stood, towering over me, and for a second, I felt that old animal terror. But I didn’t move. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.
