Page 7 of Bake the Town Red

I’d do anything for this man who treats me like a kid and not the woman I wish I could be already.

Anything but this.

My brother doesn’t belong behind bars.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Tyler.” Careful to not slip on the blood, I stand up.

“Dahlia, he’s right.”

My red hands stain Tyler’s clean shirt as I push against it. Now, he’s less clean. Now, he has a bloody handprint on his clothes.

Now, he’s like us.

“Go back to your cozy apartment and your cozy life.” I’m being mean. Push him again. He doesn’t budge, just glowers at me. “Leave us.”

“I’ll help you, both of you.” When I shove him the third time, he grabs my wrists. “I have a new job.” He reminds me of what I already know. I was so proud of him when he got it. He looks over my shoulder. “Ian, you won’t have to worry about anything. A good attorney will prove this was self-defense. I’ll say I was here, that he came after you. Just don’t let Dahlia take the blame for what you did. Even if he deserved it, which the fucker did.”

“Did I say I’ll do that? That I’ll let Dahlia go to prison for me?” Ian, an inch shorter but a lot madder than Tyler, stands up. Shoves me aside.

He’s nose to nose with Tyler, the two men growling.

“No. It was me and I’m going down for this. I killed him. No one will believe it was self-defense, so save your stupid money. No one’s helped us before. I sure as shit don’t need you to start.”

“You’re being unfair.” Tyler’s eyes narrow. “I’ve come here plenty of times, and—”

“Where were you tonight, then?” Ian’s bloody fists clench at his sides. “Where were you when our uncle ordered me to fuck my sister? When I refused, and he ordered her to choose between his cock or a vodka bottle?”

“Dahlia?” Tyler’s gaze cuts to mine. To the floor. He notices my torn panties for the first time. Sizes up my T-shirt that barely covers my bare pussy, then looks away so fast.

“No one raped me.” This isn’t the time or place for pity.

My attention leaves Tyler. As much as I’d love to stare at him for hours on end, Ian’s more important at the moment. My brother drops the knife and inches for the door.

He’s going to run away.

No. He can’t go out there wearing next to nothing.

I take three steps to our dresser. The top three drawers are Ian’s. The bottom two are mine. The closet is, of course, Al’s.

Was.

“Ian saved me.” I pull out a black, wool sweater. “ThenIkilled Al. Me.”

“You did not,” both men say unanimously.

“Did too.”

Al is dead. I’m no longer in danger. What’s left to do is take care of the living. I fish for a long shirt and the coat I crammed into one of Ian’s drawers yesterday.

“Ian, put these on.” I hand the clothes over to my brother. “Hide just until this whole thing blows over. I’ll hold off the cops. Run and hide. But come back.”

“Sooner or later, they’ll lose interest.” He nods.

Understanding passes between us. One that Tyler isn’t in on. Wordlessly, Ian jerks his clothes on. His boots come after, then his black wool hat.

“Promise you’ll come back?” My fingers clutch onto the front of his sweater. “When they lose interest. I’ll be here waiting. I’ll never leave.”

Sadness isn’t what I’m feeling.

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