Page 119 of Things We Left Behind
“Just convince me that you’re smarter and faster and more diabolical than some mob boss who’s managed to operate the family business for forty years without getting arrested once. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“I don’t have to convince you of anything except getting out of my house, Sloane.”
He looked like he was edging past mad straight into fury.
“Look. Since you don’t seem to have a pack of family or friends giving you advice, you’re stuck with me. Messing with Anthony Hugo is a bad idea. He’ll retaliate. Let the FBI build their case, and stay out of it.”
I didn’t know why it was so important to me that he heard me. But it was.
“Your opinion is noted,” he said coldly.
I stood. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why?” he scoffed. “He tried to take from me.”
I planted myself in front of him. “So you’re going to spend your life doing what? Taking down every single person who ever wronged you?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
I blew out a breath and tried a different tactic. “I get that your father made you feel powerless, but—”
“Not another word.”
He used his scary voice on me. But it only succeeded in riling me.
“You can’t spend your entire adult life righting the wrongs your father committed. He’s already behind bars—”
“Not anymore.”
“What? He got out ofprison?” My voice escalated into dog-whistle octaves.
“No. He died.”
I blinked rapidly and brought a hand to my forehead to stop the hallway from spinning. “Hedied?”
“Last summer.”
“Last summer?”
“You don’t need to repeat everything I say,” Lucian pointed out.
I rubbed my temples. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
His brow furrowed. “Why would you be notified?”
“Because as a victim of Ansel Fucking Rollins, I’m supposed to be alerted every time he’s moved or up for parole or fucking dead! Because I testified before the parole board every single time he was up for release to make sure that monster stayed where he belonged.” I threw my hands up in the air. “What the hell kind of justice is him just dying? Tell me it was at least horrifically painful.”
“You testified?” His voice was a strangled rasp. Hands reached out and closed around my biceps in a warm, firm grip. Gone was the unflappable Lucian, and in his place was a man on fire.
“Of course I did. Dad went with me every time. I was worried about going back without him this year, but I would have done it.”
“No one asked you to do that. It wasn’t your responsibility to keep him in there,” he said, still sounding as if he were about to erupt.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
He took a deep breath, let it out. “A stroke in his sleep. I’m told it was painless.” The words landed bitterly.
“Painless.” I choked out a humorless laugh. My father had spent his last weeks on earth suffering, and Ansel Rollins escaped peacefully in his sleep.
