Page 2 of Rear View
“Done!”
My nod was sharp. “Wipe the keyboard,” I told him. “Get ready to move.”
He did, spraying it down before he scrubbed his prints from the trackpad and keys, then bagged up the cleaning supplies.
A familiar engine roared off in the distance, headlights speeding closer when my old man’s SUV barreled down our wealthy, suburban street. The houses were all two-story, six-bedroom, three-car garage beasts with white picket fences and a shit ton of secrets.
“It’s go time, Alec.” I straightened and rolled my shoulders. It all came down to what happened next, and the rest was on me. “Make the call.”
He pulled a voice modulator and burner phone from the black bag on the desk.
Sean’s hand shot out, stopping him, words for me when he said, “Once he does this, there’s no going back.”
I was already too far down that road. No matter how things shook out, I was screwed. I’d already calculated that loss. But as things sat, my life hovered on a ledge. Had done since everything with my brother went down. If I didn’t act… Nah. Not an option. I’d waited long enough.
“Do it,” I told Alec.
Dialing, he lifted the phone to his mouth.
“Nine-one-one. What’s the address of your emergency?” the woman said from the other end of the line.
Alec’s electronically distorted voice recited his script. “There’s a domestic in progress at 49 Summerfield Street. Send the police.” He hung up.
The cops would come, but they wouldn’t rush. Theyknew our house well enough. Knew what they’d be walkin’ into. They’d never been useful before. But this time was different.
Dad whipped into the driveway with Ma in the passenger seat. Her head jerked forward when he slammed the brakes, tires screeching as he skidded to a stop. The driver’s door launched open.
“Go. Hide,” I told Alec and Sean, then grabbed the stack of printouts and headed for the hall.
“Xavier.” Alec’s dark eyes pinned mine and held. “Handle the fucker.”
My nod was sharp.
He and Sean bolted for the door that connected to the garage while I picked up my pace, my pulse pounding in my ears as I beelined for the front entrance.
A second later, my father barreled inside. I dropped the documents, pages scattering as my fist flew and found his face. A loud crack filled the house when his nose broke. Blood spattered the light gray walls as he rocked back and collided with the doorframe. The whites of his eyes stood out under the chandelier before they tracked to me.
I bared my teeth. “Welcome home, asshole.”
He dragged the back of his arm across his mouth, streaking his dress shirt sleeve in red. His pale blue eyes—the twins of mine—glared back at me. “Think you’re tough now, huh, boy?”
The smile that split my lips held a lifetime worth of vengeance. But I wasn’t like him, and I never would be. I didn’t react. I planned. I knew what he’d do before he did, ’cause Peter Bosch was a walkin’ time bomb. Predictable as hell. If you knew what buttons to hit, he’d detonate. And the prick had a lotta buttons. Hit first, ask questions later. That’s what he did. Every. Damn. Time.
And I was done living his way.
He swung, and I ducked. His punch arced wide, and the momentum threw his torso around. I launched a hit, connecting hard with his cheek. The blow split the skin and drove him back. He smashed into the family portrait on the wall—one done two years before, when Fallon was still alive. It dropped to the floor. The frame cracked. Glass shattered.
Dad blinked hard. Blood leaked down the side of his face. His eyes went wide, more from shock than fear. Not a surprise, seeing as it was the first time I’d swung on him. Or fought back. Ever.
We were the same height. He had a good fifty pounds on me, but I was prepared. I’d made sure of that.
His nostrils flared, a tell. He kicked off the wall and bent low to tackle me. I sidestepped and my fist flew again. He tried to duck, but I was ready for him. So goddamn ready. His movements were slow, uncoordinated, and when my hit found its mark, colliding with his temple, he dropped like the two-hundred-pound sack of shit he was.
Flipping him onto his stomach, I pulled a zip tie from my pocket, hogtieing his hands and feet. I dragged him into the living room, then lifted him, settling his crooked ass into the chair there.
He groaned.
I picked a clump of pages off the floor and the duct tape from the coffee table, then strapped that evidence to his chest and him to the chair. Taking a black marker from my back pocket, I wrote what I needed the cops to see.
