Page 43 of True Bastard
“I know,” I whispered. “I was at the bus depot when a police officer stopped me and asked if I knew the young couple. I recognized Kaycee. I’m sorry, Aunt Karen. I should have said something.”
“NO!” Aunt Karen damn near shouted, hugging me tightly. “You did the right thing, sweetheart.” Releasing me, she sniffed. “Anyway, after Kaycee’s death, a friend of Karter’s biological father showed up and told us to get Karter out of the city until he found the bastard who killed my girl. Robert and I packed up Karter and left. But two days ago, the RCPD called me and informed me that my niece Keely had been murdered as well, and we needed to return.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer for you to stay gone? I mean, if a madman is killing family members.”
“That’s what Robert said, but the detective in charge was adamant. He needed us back in Rapid City so they could put us into protective custody.”
“And the break-in last night?”
“They messed up,” Aunt Karen sneered. “The officer fell asleep in his squad car. He never saw who it was. If it weren’t for Robert’s due diligence, I don’t know what would have happened.”
Looking down at my hands, I carefully asked, “Aunt Karen, could this have anything to do with back home? I mean, could the club be cleaning house?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. My brother is dead, and the Soulless Sinners executed Steele for that stunt he pulled at Rockefeller Center. I don’t even know who’s running the club now, and I don’t want to know. I left that life a long time ago. I have nothing to do with Satan’s Angels.”
Sighing, I looked around the beautiful country kitchen, the rustic charm a stark contrast to the knot of dread tightening in my gut. “Could this be about my father?” My words felt hollow,a desperate plea for a simpler explanation. But the memory of his desperation, the chilling gleam in his eyes when he spoke of deals made in shadow, wouldn’t leave me.
Was this some twisted echo of his past?
Another debt I was going to be forced to pay?
“I don’t know, Kyllian,” Aunt Karen muttered, her voice thick with a weariness that went beyond mere exhaustion. The weight of her words pressed down on me. “Your father’s debts were wiped clean when he sold your mother to the club. And your mom paid dearly. I am so sorry for that.” The accusation hung in the air, a silent indictment of a man I’d tried so hard to understand, to forgive. Selling my mother—the thought alone was a bitter poison. To think I might be linked to that monstrous act, to be the unwitting conduit for its repercussions... it made my stomach churn.
“Right now, all the RCPD knows for sure is that there is a madman out there, killing off members of my family and, sweetheart, even though we don’t share blood, you are family.”
Family.
The word felt both comforting and a burden. Aunt Karen was offering me solace, calling me family, but a chilling thought clawed its way to the surface: what if protecting her, protecting this family, meant confronting the very darkness my father had unleashed?
It was a choice I was terrified to make.
To investigate my father’s past meant potentially unearthing a truth that could shatter everything I thought I knew, a truth that might force me to act in ways that would stain my own soul, making me a reflection of the man I loathed. And the alternative—to do nothing, to let this madman continue his rampage while I clung to ignorance—felt like a betrayal of Aunt Karen, a betrayal of my mother’s memory. I was trapped between a past I couldn’tescape and a present that demanded a sacrifice I wasn’t sure I could bear.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kyllian
“Miss Ward, my name is Detective Powell. I work at the Rapid City Police Department, and the man next to me is Detective Ibanez. I first want to give you my condolences for the loss of your cousin and sister.”
“Stepsister,” I muttered. “Keely was my stepfather’s daughter.”
“And Kaycee Edwards?” Detective Ibanez asked.
“Kaycee was my stepfather’s niece.”
Detective Powell nodded as his partner jotted what I said down. “And who was your stepfather?”
“Joel Johnson, but his club name was Knuckles. He was the vice president of Satan’s Angels, a biker club out of Birmingham, Alabama.”
“Are you still affiliated with the Satan’s Angels in any way?” Detective Ibanez asked.
“No,” I adamantly replied. “I want nothing to do with any biker club.”
“According to our records, you are married to a Jessup Winston, a biker named Pinch in the Death Dogs. Is that correct?”
“Not anymore,” I muttered.
Both detectives looked curiously at me.
