Page 81 of The Villains We Make

SILAS

Idrive for a while. Something isn’t right, but I can’t put my finger on it. Ethan not seeming upset about Sly’s death, I can understand. It’s shitty, but I get it. Sly was not a warm, loving father. For outward appearances, he was exactly as he should be, of course, but behind closed doors, he was a fucking monster.

If it was just towards me, maybe that would have made sense in some bizarre universe, in some backwards logic, but he also beat his acknowledged son. I saw that firsthand, and he was merciless when he did it, as merciless as when he beat me.

Mira spoiled Ethan and she loves him.

Did Sly love anyone?

Ethan never said a word about the abuse. He never showed any signs of having been beaten. If you paid close attention, you might notice him wincing with fresh welts and bruises. I paid attention because I knew. He put on a good show, Ethan. And I guess what Sly was doing worked. He was hardening his boy, readying him for the ‘real’ world. It was how he justified his cruelty.

Did he realize it would make Ethan hate him?

I remember Ophelia telling me that Ethan admitted he hated his father. Did Sullivan Fox know? Did he care?

No. He wouldn’t care. He’d just expect Ethan to fall in line. To look the part of Sullivan Fox’s son.

After the whipping I witnessed, I tried to talk to Ethan. Took him a cup of hot chocolate Mom had made late that night. I didn’t tell her what I’d seen, and I remember her finding it strange that I’d ask for that for the boy who was my nemesis. When I’d gone into Ethan’s room, I’d expected to find him lying in his bed licking his wounds but what I’d found had been Ethan, headphones on, obliterating his opponent in some war game on his very own giant screen TV.

When I’d opened my mouth to say something, he’d pointed to where I could leave the hot chocolate and told me to fuck off back to the kitchen. That was the one and only time I made an effort with him.

So, Ethan hated his father. He won’t mourn him in death. Maybe what he feels is relief. But this isn’t what’s nagging at me.

Seeing the ring on Ethan’s finger threw me. Why though? I’ve always hated that ring. Always. When I was little, it scared me. I guess it symbolized Sly’s true nature. The sharp, pointed ears, those red eyes—cunning, cruel eyes.

It’s not that, though. It’s that Ethan has it. But why would that be strange? Sly always made a big deal of his son getting that ring when he was cold in his grave, saying the words his son loud enough that I’d hear. That I’d get it. I think it bothered him to no end that I didn’t give a fuck. That I never wanted to be his. Hell, the opposite was true.

Did he have it on when I went to see him? There were a few occasions he’d forget to wear it. Very few but still, it did happen.

Whoever killed him looked him right in the eye and did it.

Whoever pulled that trigger came with a single-minded purpose.

He came to kill.

I think back to my meeting with Sly. Was he drunk? Drinking, yes, but not drunk. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him drunk. He’d had his back to me while standing at the window. He was worried about losing it all to me. Maybe he’d come to some realization that that was happening. He asked about those people on the street. And when he turned around to face me, he had the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, and I remember the soft clink of the ring against the crystal.

Sly was wearing the ring that night.

I pull on the steering wheel and swerve to the shoulder to the sound of horns blaring in anger. Tires screech to brake and avoid collision as I cross two lanes to do it. Someone flips me off as they drive past, yelling something out their window. I don’t bother with them as I take out my phone and find the email Nigella sent containing the police files. I scroll to the one listing Sly’s personal items logged by the morgue and skim to the valuables. His watch, a Rolex worth thousands. A thin gold chain with a crucifix hanging from it. Hypocrite. His wedding band. That’s it. I skim all the pages of the report. No fox ring. Could they have missed it? No. No way.

I find the email with the video footage of the man in the garage. I don’t look at him so much as where he’s going. He’s heading to the ramp cars would use to exit, not the door where the camera would capture his image. It’s where he disappears from view, right out of reach of the camera.

I play it again, zooming in, but the image just gets grainier. I focus on the hand at his side. He’s not wearing a glove, though he could have taken it off after shooting Fox. But again, all I see are pixels.

“Shit.”

I dial Nigella. She answers, sounding annoyed. “Silas. If you tell me you’re making your one phone call from jail again, I swear?—”

“I need you to get that security footage cleaned up as much as you can.”

“What?”

“The man leaving the building. I want to see his hand.”

“His hand? Why?”

“Just do it. How soon can you get it?”

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