Page 105 of The Way We Are

Ignoring her repeated pledge to make me pay, I press my fingers to my father’s neck. For the second time in under twenty-four hours, I fail to find a pulse.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Fuck!!

Curse words aren’t the only things filtering through my hazy mind. Millions of horrible, evil thoughts are adding to the panic engulfing every inch of me. None of them are pretty. Even through the madness, some of my mom’s comments make sense. I’ve never hid my dislike of my father from anyone, and he was killed by my gun. This can’t get any worse for me.

When I return my eyes to Damon, they answer the silent stream of questions pumping out of him.We killed our father. We murdered him.

I should be feeling guilt, but all I am feeling is panicked relief.

“I’m going to be arrested. It was an accident, but they won’t care. I killed one of their own. They’ll hunt for my blood,” Damon chokes out with a sob. “They are going to kill me, Ryan. I’m going to be buried right alongside him. Don’t let them bury me with him.”

I vehemently shake my head. “You defended yourself. This was self-defense—”

“They won’t believe that when they test my blood,” Damon interrupts, shaking his head so violently he blurs my vision. “They’ll say it was the drugs. That I killed him because of the drugs.”

I glare at him, shocked and confused.

“Damon...” I breathe out heavily when reality smacks into me. That’s why he has been extra jittery this week. He’s using again.

“She wouldn’t take me back. No matter what I did or said, Molly wouldn’t forgive me,” he mutters, as if it's a plausible excuse for him to break his sobriety.

“Jesus Christ, Damon.”

I want to say more, but words fail me. This makes matters ten times worse. All the prosecution needs is one reason to make out this wasn’t an act of self-defense, and he will be charged with first-degree murder. I can’t save him from that. I am a rookie police officer, not a genie.

“Go!” I shout seconds later, panicked by the alarmed cry of our neighbor advising she has called the police. “You can’t be here when they arrive. You need to leave.”

When Damon remains cowered in the corner of the patio, I crawl over to him on my hands and knees. My hands rattle when I curl them around his quivering jaw to raise his head, but my resolve remains strong. I just watched my best friend lose his younger brother; I’m not going to lose mine the same day.

“If you want me to keep my promise, you need to leave now. The police are on their way.”

Damon’s eyes snap to mine when my last sentence breaks through the torment swallowing him whole. “I can’t let you take the blame for this.”

“It’s not your choice, just like Molly’s decision not to forgive you isn’t your choice.”

I hate that my confession adds to the pain in his eyes, but with this being my last-ditch effort to stop him following in our father’s footsteps, I’m going to give it everything I have.

“Promise me you won’t turn out like him, and I promise I’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Damon’s eyes drift between our father’s lifeless body and mine for what feels like hours but is mere seconds before he nods his head. I don’t know if his lack of gratitude is because of the drugs running through his veins, or because he’s become so accustomed to violence the direness of our situation doesn’t register as real to him, but whatever it is, now is not the time to evaluate his coping mechanisms.

After aiding Damon to his feet and watching him race out the front door of our family home, I take a moment to assess the scene. Other than the government-issued pistol used to kill my father sitting just to the right of the large pool of blood seeping from the exit wound in his back, there's no other evidence Damon was here.

Knowing evidence will be the first thing officers will collect after securing the premise, I gather the gun in my hands and remove Damon’s fingerprints from the barrel and butt with the towel wrapped around my hips.

I freeze not even two seconds later when a familiar creak sounds through my ears. My heart rate climbs to an astronomical level. That wasn’t a creak of someone sneaking across the front porch of my family residence; it was from the side gate only one person uses:Savannah.

I race for the back entrance of my house before my brain has formulated my plan of action. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I reach Savannah, but I sure as hell don’t want her to witness this dismal situation firsthand. I also don’t want her last thoughts of me to be tainted by horror.

“Savannah,” I shout breathlessly, stopping her climb up the trestle.

My turmoil grows when Savannah swings her eyes in my direction. They are brimming with tears and look as haunted as mine.

“What are you doing outside...?” Her eyes drift around our isolated surroundings before she murmurs, “Why are you only wearing a towel? Aren’t you cold?”

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