Page 153 of Severed Heart
“No. We’ve already made sure a call wasn’t put in to anyone. It’s likely no one heard it. It was storming pretty hard earlier tonight, which was probably our saving grace.” Russell’s expression dims, his hesitancy earning him an impatient glare from me.
“Stop with the fucking suspense-filled pauses,” I snap. “Lay it all out,now.”
“Sorry, man. It’s just that his dad was rushing him, so it ended up being a point-blank shot that took him down, and it’s extremely fucking messy in that house. I pinged youhereto keep traffic to a minimum until we figure out a plan.”
“You made the right call.” I palm his back, and he nods.
“We can access the house by the alley,” he relays.
I scan the quiet street—a street Peter has gone to great lengths to get to from the dilapidated trailer he lived in with a hole the size of a bowling ball in the floor. A hole his father had beaten him unconscious in front of the day he bailed on them. The amount of pride in Peter’s eyes the day he bought his house is one of the reasons I recruited him. A milestone and home that is now and forever tainted by a memory that can’t and won’t be erased. Anxious to get to him, I turn to Russell. “Where is he?”
“Inside,” he sighs, “we tried, man, but he can’t stop staring at him. He’s refusing to leave his side.”
“Fuck.” I palm my neck. “Get Denny out here to clean up, and tell him to bring his strongest mix,” I order. Layla’s fiancé is our most trusted—and now our go-to—when it comes to preciselythis typeof situation. An expertise of Denny’s that I discovered on a very hard night that I happened to be in town for years back.
“I did. He’s already on his way,” Russell replies, the fear in his tone for Peter amping my own. I press the side button on my G-SHOCK to give me the dimly lit time and keep our cover.
“How long until Mom’s shift ends?”
“Midnight.”
I nod. “Four hours. Plenty of time to make it happen if all birds are on deck. Round up our most discreet, most capable, and delegate. Renovate floor to ceiling and take it out of our piggy bank. I don’t care how it’s done, butget it done. I’ll get him out of there and coach him through how to handle this as we pick up Annabelle.”
“Done.” Russell takes off like a shot armed with our strategy. Minutes later, I step through the back door via the alley. The streetlight adjacent to the backyard streams through the thick kitchen blinds, lighting Peter up in divided, measured shadows where he sits feet away from his father’s lifeless body. The house utterly and eerily silent.
“Give me the room,” I order Jeremy, who’s standing in the kitchen next to the counter, arms crossed, his expression riddled with concern. A heartbeat later, and with one last lingering glance, Jeremy wordlessly slips through the back door as I carefully bypass the pool of coagulating blood before crouching down and palming Peter’s shoulder. Even in the dim light, I can see how pale he is, his expression haunted.
“Look at me, brother,” I whisper, hating the lasting effect this will have on him and knowing the nature of this expression all too well—his first kill. Peter’s tear-filled eyes float over to mine, the agony there unmistakable. It’s then that my instincts about him are confirmed. It’s my job to know the limits of each of our Ravens, and though I had done my best to keep Peter closer to my wing—to shield him from this part of it—I could never truly save him from this fate. Even so, this isn’t in any way an ideal introduction. Peter’s part in our club is that of a criminal mastermind in helping Dom with recon and the planning and execution of heists, not human waste disposal. With that in mind, I keep my gaze steady, my voice just as level. “Look at me, Peter.”
It takes a few seconds for his eyes to focus.
“Tyler,” he croaks, “I’m so sorry, I, am I ... a-am I out?”
“Keep your eyes on meand hear me. You had no choice. Even if you got him out tonight, he wasnevergoing to leave you alone. The first time you gave in and gave him a taste, he would have escalated it. You protected yourself and your family from a threat that was not going to go away. Rest easy. I won’t let you go down for this.”
“Maybe I should,” he croaks, “I killed my own dad.” He swallows as a tear glides along his jaw. “Who does that?”
“A son and brother who will do anything to protect their family. We’ll get through this. I swear to you, brother. We’ll do it together. Let’s go.”
* * *
Two hours later—confident we’ve camouflaged Peter’s secret—I walk through Delphine’s door, bundled wildflowers twined together atop a pizza I picked up before Russell’s ping. Unease sneaks in when I don’t feel Delphine anywhere close by. Though her car is in the driveway, she doesn’t answer when I call her name. On edge, I walk into the kitchen and glance around. Setting the pizza and flowers on the table, I freeze when I see a small, familiar, empty brown bag on the counter.
Fuck.
Defeat tries to snake its way in, but I bat it away. I knew there was a chance she’d have a setback during her initial battle and curse the fact that the club keeps me from being a more constant sober companion. But I’m not giving up, and I’m sure as fuck not letting her slip be the last of our war. It’s then I detect the low music playing just outside the sliding glass door. Walking to it, I spot her sitting at the table, her back to me as she runs the end of an unlit cigarette along an ashtray. Leaving the porch light off gives me little view of her, though her slumped posture screams defeat.
Staving off the disappointment so she can’t see it, I accept the temporary setback as just that,a setbackand nothing more. Sliding open the door, I stalk toward her, knowing she senses me there even as the soft music and screaming cicadas mute some of my approach.
“It’s okay, General. It was just a bad day,” I whisper, running a palm down her back, “just tell me how much you’ve had.”
She drops her chin and instantly starts to cry as I kneel at her side, eyeing the pint sitting in the middle of the table, unable to see the level.
“Hey, hey, it’sone day, General,” I relay in a soothing tone. “We armor up and start again tomorrow.”
She turns and grips my hand before slowly pulling it to her lips and pressing a reverent kiss to it while lifting her silver eyes to mine. “You would forgive me so ...too, easily, Soldier. My God, I do not deserve you”—she lowers her eyes—“and I never have.”
“Not true,” I whisper as she releases my hand and begins to clear her face of tears, seeming annoyed by them.
