Page 92 of Broken Daddy

The next day feels peaceful in a way my life hasn’t for a while.

Until a scream shatters the air.

From the barn, I turn and stare across the property to the front of the house. A dread sweat breaks out on my forehead as I drop my tools and run for the house.

The French doors are open. Barging through them, I turn, then shut and lock them before striding through the rest of the house.

“Eva!?”

“Daddy?” she calls back, voice full of fear.

It wasn’t her; she’s fine, upstairs somewhere.

But I already knew that. Because I recognized the voice.

Doing a full sweep of the first floor, I shout for Eva to lock her door.

As I turn the corner toward the foyer, I see that the front door is open—the decorative glass door closed and marbling outside, so I can’t tell what’s happening in the driveway.

But I can hear the struggle, and so can Brutus. He’s beside me in an instant, hackles raised along his back as he skids on the hardwood floor.

“Gen?”

She doesn’t answer. Somewhere out there blurred, dark figures are struggling. It’s late afternoon, almost twilight.

I swing the door open forcefully and run out into the driveway, Brutus barking aggressively only a foot behind.

Damn this long, private driveway.It’s curved enough to hide the struggle from sight, but I already know what I’ll find.

Gravel scatters under my boots as I take the curve fast. My eyes search the area for a weapon, anything. The yard is too well-manicured.

Brutus rockets ahead of me, the growl coming from him thunderous.

“Get off me!” Gen screams. As I run up to them, I see her struggling with a man.

One who looks vaguely familiar.

He has her by the hair, by the ponytail to be exact, and is pulling herhardtoward the ground. But Gen is tall and strong. With one hand wrapped around the base of her hair she pulls back, both of them off-balance.

Then Brutus joins the fight.

He goes right for the wild-eyed man, latching onto his thigh. The guy screams as I pick up a massive branch from the ground, something that must’ve come off during the windy nights. Heaving it over my head, I bring it down in a wide arc, realizing only at the last minute I might hit Gen instead.

Luckily, she yanks hard in the other direction and the man stumbles right into the line of impact. The branch cracks over his shoulder and he cries out, then releases Gen, focusing on dislodging Brutus. The dog isn’t backing down, though, and neither am I.

I wield the branch again, managing a glancing blow off his temple. He staggers to the side and falls.

“Brutus!”

Despite only having lived with us for a few weeks, he hears the sharp tone in my voice and backs off.

I don’t.

Stalking up to the man scrambling away on my driveway, I lean down and grab a fistful of his shirt. It’s thin, worn, and a ripping sounds out as I yank him upward. It’s easy to drag him off the drive and into the grass.

With an adrenaline rush, I pick him up and slam him into the trunk of an oak. His face is scratched up from the gravel and he’s snarling like an animal.

Whydoes he look so familiar?

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