Page 83 of Broken Instrument

It’s also why I think he approached me, trying to access my contract with Hawthorne so we could save his sorry ass with the money from it. Not that it matters. No one has seen him since shortly after Hadley was drugged.

I guess he was too busy running from the cops and the loan sharks who were after him.

I knew he was bad news, but I had no idea just how far he’d spiraled. But killing someone with his own two hands? Knowing someone who shares your blood is capable of something so reprehensible? It’s a sobering realization. One I still can’t wrap my head around.

He killed a father, a brother, a friend.

And now? Everyone else is left to pick up the pieces.

Thankfully, the police arrested Marty shortly after the body was found. He’d been hiding out in some low life’s house, and they dragged him to jail.

And since Milo knows a few shady guys connected to the mob thanks to owning a tattoo shop, he asked Sonny and me if we wanted him to call in a favor.

It’s a favor I probably should’ve prevented from being called in, but I couldn’t help it. Not when everyone finally opened up about everything Marty had done to them.

Marty introduced me to drugs and not only encouraged me to continue down that shitty path, but he messed with my dosage one night in hopes of getting under Sonny’s skin. It led to my overdose. I could’ve died, and he didn’t even care.

He blackmailed Maddie into sleeping with him before Maddie started dating Milo in hopes of pissing off Gibson, too. Not that it worked. Milo was the one who loved her, not Sonny. But still.

Then, he blackmailed Maddie––again––when he found out she had a daughter. It screwed up her relationship with Milo even more. Marty convinced Maddy to lie to our dad and tell Donny Hayes Penny belonged to him so he could have access to Dad’s bank account and help support his new baby girl.

And let’s not forget how Marty threatened to blackmail me if I didn’t give him access to my music career and funds. He even paid someone to drug Hadley, hoping to prove his point. If that isn’t messed up, I don’t know what is.

But the worst part? He murdered Bud and blackmailed Evie’s ex into helping him cover his tracks.

It’s unforgivable.

He’s ruined so many lives.

So. Many. Lives.

It was time for retribution.

When my dad visited him a few weeks later, Marty was black and blue after being jumped in the jail yard. He’s still alive and won’t be eating out of a feeding tube. See? Sonny and I still showed him mercy. But at least he got an ounce of what he deserved.

He’s officially behind bars, and while part of me feels like I should feel something close to regret or sadness or who the hell knows, all I feel is relief. If only he’d been put away before this, Hadley might still have her brother, and I’d still have my friend.

“You doing okay?” I ask Hadley as I step into our bedroom and rub a towel over my damp hair. Pixie needed to go outside earlier, but when I woke up to find Hadley still sleeping, I’d stepped down the hall, let Pixie outside, and took a shower, hoping Hadley would have a few more minutes of restful sleep. She needs it. But the bags under her eyes are still present. Just as dark as yesterday. Just as haunted. And I hate it. I can’t fix it. I can’t take away her pain or her fears. She has to learn how to handle them on her own.

Helpless, I watch her pull her messy hair into a bun on top of her head and paste a fake smile on her hollow features.

“I’m fine,” she lies. “Sorry I didn’t come to the show last night.”

“Don’t apologize.” I throw the damp towel in the hamper and tug on a dark T-shirt from my closet.

Hadley shrugs one shoulder as if to say she can’t help it. Apologizing. To me. To Isabella. Mia. No one should have to feel so much remorse or sadness. It guts me.

The fabric of my shirt she threw on last night slips down to reveal her soft, smooth skin as she sits cross-legged on my bed, watching me.

I step closer to her and kiss her shoulder. “How are you really doing, Hads?”

“Sad,” is all she offers. “Where’s Pixie?”

“Downstairs chewing on a bone.”

She nods, though it feels mechanical somehow. Like she isn’t doing it because she understands or has even grasped the comment, but because she’s supposed to. “Oh. Gotcha.”

“You sure you’re all right?” I ask.

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