Page 111 of So Wild

This is how men murdered their wives.This is how ordinary people shoot up their high schools. Blank and business as usual.

He imagined running at him, tackling him, hurting him—but the images swam with the same unreality as the present moment. This was his dad, his mother’s husband. He couldn’t have done this, could he?

His father reached the bottom of the stairs. “Are the cops, here yet, boy?”

“No,” Scott said numbly. “You could have killed them, you know. You could have burned their house down.”

“But I didn’t.” His father flashed him that same agitated smile. “I was trying for their gutters, but my aim’s not as good as it used to be. No matter, I’ve got back-up.”

His father pulled out a glass bottle from his sports coat, the white liquid inside it sloshing ominously.

“Metho,” he said. “Burns better than alcohol.”

Scott watched, as though with someone else’s eyes, as his dad extracted a long red rag from another pocket and unscrewed the bottle cap. “Fucking hell! You c-c-can’t be serious!”

His father ignored him, poking the rag into the alcohol. He rotated the bottle gently, like a man swirling wine in a stemmed glass, making sure it was thoroughly soaked. “They should have fucking sold this house to me,” he said. “The heritage application’s cancelled, they won’t take my fucking money. This is what they get.”

Scott’s heart was thumping so hard, he felt on the verge of a coronary. He took a step forward and his dad held up the bottle and shook it. “I don’t think so, boy. You come closer and I’ll make you sorry you did.”

Scott hesitated. He could tackle him, but his father was six-three and heavy with fat and muscle. What if he broke free and chucked the bottle at his old house or the tree or set both of them on fire? He didn’t have the luxury of assuming that wasn’t a possibility. He needed to stay calm and de-escalate this situation. He edged toward the gate, trying to subtly put himself between it and his father. “Dad, we need to talk.”

“I’m done talking,” his father said, gesturing violently with the bottle. “I’m already fucked, I might as well get the job done. Now, get out of the way, boy.”

The gate creaked open. “Scott? Is that you?”

Scott’s mouth went dry. Of course, she was here. Of course, she’d come.

“Sam, get out of here!” he called, refusing to break eye contact with his father. “It’s not safe!”

“Scott, what the hell is happening? Tabby said you’d—oh god, it was you.”

A look of slippery cunning came over his father’s face as his gaze moved from Scott to Samantha. “Hello there, missy. You should have sold up when you had the chance, shouldn’t you?”

In spite of his terror, Scott had room for the quiet shame that this washisfather, taunting and hurting the woman he loved. “Samantha, don’t come any closer.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” his old man demanded. “This is all her fucking fault. If her family were smart they’d have moved a long goddamn time ago.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam’s voice was hard with anger.

“Your family’s nothing but fucking trouble, that’s what I mean. We move in and your whore of a mother runs off, leaves you girls to run wild and interfere with my son. Meanwhile, your filthy fucking father’s trying to have it off with my wife behind my back.”

“That’s bullshit! Dad never went anywhere near her!”

But that wasn’t right, Scott knew. Edgar and his mother had sat on this very porch and drunk tea and talked about books and movies. They’d been friends.

“You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” his father told Sam, as he pulled a small black lighter from his pocket.

“What don’t I know?” Sam demanded.

“How to fucking quit. The whole lot of you don’t know when to quit. I told your old man when we moved in to stay away from my family and he never listened. Then I showed him, I show him over and over again and you still never learned.”

Scott frowned, confused, but behind him Sam gave a small scream of laughter. “Oh my God, it was you! You stole Nicole’s pictures and posted them, didn’t you?”

His father gave her an ugly smile. “I did. Walked into the house one afternoon and stole them out of her bedside table. Your old man’s fault for not locking the front door like a decent person.”’

Sam gave another mad shriek. “I knew it! I knew only a fucking old person would post pictures on a school website. You wrote that letter, too! That one that said my mother was a whore! What the fuck is wrong with you? I was eight!”

Scott risked a glance around, and Sam was stark white, her hands balled into fists. He stepped backward, blocking her body with his. “Samantha, listen to me. I know this is fucked up, but you need to get out of here. Stop engaging with—”

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