He stepped closer, beer in hand, breath sour. “You got a lot of nerve, coming into my house, disrespecting your mother like this.”
My mother’s voice, small and desperate, cut through the tension. “Don’t, Waylon. Please. Just—don’t.”
He didn’t even turn. “Stay out of it.”
I took another step, now close enough to see the broken capillaries in his cheeks, the lines on his knuckles where the skin never quite healed. “You covered for him, Mom. For years. Why?”
She started to cry, the sound barely more than a whisper.
My father smirked. “She’s got sense, that’s why. Knows what happens when you go blabbing to people who don’t need to know.”
I felt something snap inside me. “That’s what you told Ty, right? That he should mind his own business?”
The smile vanished. He set the beer down, slow and deliberate.
He stared at me, then at my mother, then back. “You think you know everything. You think just because you made a little money, you’re better than us. You don’t know shit about what it takes to survive in a place like this.”
He was starting to shake, voice rising. “You don’t know shit about loyalty, or family. About what’s owed and what’s earned. You left. You ran off to play computers, let your mom rot here. And now you want to come back and play hero?”
He stepped forward, close enough to bump my chest with his. “You want to say I did it? Why’d you run then, Ford?” He laughed, wild and mean. “Nobody cares. They all think you did it. That’s the joke. You’ll always be the killer here. Doesn’t matter what the truth is.”
He started to circle me, slow and predatory, looking for a weak spot. “Just like when you were a kid,” he sneered. “Always poking at things you didn’t understand. You never did learn when to shut your mouth.”
He swung, fast and ugly. His hand caught me in the jaw, but I was ready for it this time. I stumbled, but stayed upright.
He looked shocked for a second, like he expected me to go down.
I didn’t.
He swung again. I ducked, caught his arm, and twisted. The pain made him howl.
“You’re done,” I said, voice cold. “It’s over.”
He tried to break free, but I had the leverage now.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, and it was true. “Not anymore.”
He spit in my face, the last weapon he had.
I let go, and he staggered back, gasping, then falling to the floor.
The shaking started in my hands and climbed up my arms, until I couldn’t tell if I was cold or just running on fumes. I tried to focus, to keep my mind anchored in the now. But it was no use.
All I could see was blood. The memory crashed through my skull like a whiteout. I was seventeen, walking home in the dark, the cold biting so hard I couldn’t feel my face.
Ty’s truck had followed me, headlights off, rumbling over the ruts in the road. I heard the engine before I saw him—he always took the long way, creeping along the shoulder so he could time it just right, pull up next to me and say something clever or mean. Sometimes both.
But this time, when the engine died, he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, jacket unzipped, hands jammed in his pockets.
He looked at me, and for the first time, I realized he was scared.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “About everything. I just—I got drunk and I told people things I shouldn’t have, and now it’s out, and?—”
The porch light flicked on. My father’s silhouette filled the doorway.
“Get in here, Ford,” he barked. “Now.”
Ty flinched, then straightened up, trying to look tough. “I should go,” he said.
