Page 14 of Injustice and Absolution

Without hesitation, I knock on the heavy wood. Echoes like cannon blasts boom down the hallway behind me. Before I lose the resolve I’ve dug out from somewhere deep inside, I call out to him.

“Royce?”

With no immediate answer, I inhale, ready to call out his name again. Before I can utter another sound, however, the floor beneath me vibrates as feet on the other side of the door stomp quickly toward it. A lump forms in my throat, suffocating the newly found confidence I had a moment ago.

When the door opens, I want to melt into the imperfections of the wood I’m standing on and disappear forever.

The intensity in his expression matches what I saw earlier on the deck. But the electric spark that lit up his eyes is gone. He’s irritated. On edge. And I know I’m the cause of it.

At one time, I would’ve run and never looked back. But this time, be it from the beer or growing a sudden backbone, I won’t do it. I lick my lips and clear the lump from my throat.

“I-I wa-” I swallow nervously and begin again. “I want to know what happened to my father.”

He doesn’t move, his features barely shift.

In a silent battle of wills, he stands stock straight, waiting for me to cower and forget all about anything I want to know. Yet I stand firm—though less straight and shakier than him—refusing to back down.

When he folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes at me, I consider the small movement a huge victory.

He was the first to break.

“No,” he spits, denying my request.

I mirror his stance and deliver my rebuttal.

“Why not?” I inquire.

“I don’t know anything about it, that’s why.”

“You’re lying.” I wait for him to deny my accusation, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. “I’m not stupid, you know. I tell you … what I told you … and my father just happens to skip town that very night?”

He shrugs. “Guess so...?”

As the formation of tears prick at my eyes, I close them and take a calming breath. The last thing I need to do is become a hysterical mess right now.

But my deep breath only helps so much. Now that I’m this close to finding out if my father is really gone, I need to know the truth more than I’ve needed anything since getting away from him.

When I open my eyes, I catch a glimmer of empathy from Royce, but it’s gone in a flash. Though his expression remains softer than it was when he first opened the door.

“Royce, you don’t understand.” I manage to keep the tears at bay, but my breathing increases as the panic of never finding out sinks in. “I need to know if I can finally stop looking over my shoulder... That I no longer have to worry he’s going to climb through my window and under my covers... I—”

“You don’t.”

“But how do you know that? I need reassurance. I wasn’t born yesterday, Royce. I know some of the things you’ve done in the past. I know what you’re capable of.”

It’s not a criticism, and the indifference in his stare tells me he wouldn’t care even if it was. Or maybe he’s that good at masking his true emotion, which I wouldn’t doubt.

I said it more as an appreciation of the degree to which he will fight to protect those close to him. I don’t begin to presume I truly belong in that category of people. Maybe he did it because I’m close to Maggie. Whatever the reason, I need the guarantee of the violent vigilante I first heard about when I was thirteen.

“Because I’m telling you, you don’t.”

“The words.”

My chest grows tight, and I wring my hands together. Taking a step toward him, I fight not to grab onto his T-shirt to keep my weak knees from lowering me to the ground at his feet. Impatiently, I wait for verbal confirmation that he got rid of my father in the permanent sense.

When his tongue traces the outline of his lower lip, I know I’ve got him. I don’t know how I know, but the next moment he exhales before gripping my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Memories of the day in question come back, and I’m reminded of how I begged him not to tell my father I spilled our secret. All while desperately wishing my nightmare would finally come to an end.

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