Chapter 36
the necessary kind of fear
Kit chose Darius’s car because all of James’s were too flashy.
Nearly biting through his lower lip, he forced his trembling foot onto the gas pedal.
Not yet pushing down, but ready, because as soon as the garage door rumbled, his countdown would begin.
The darkened garage was a turning point.
He could still turn off the car. Go back inside.
Confess everything.
Or keep pretending.
A laugh broke from him. No. He’d already crossed the limits of his acting skills. Offering to get coffee, sneaking upstairs to carry out his backpack in a basket. Thankfully Bishop and the rest were distracted by Archie Calvin. And Kit’s jeans were baggy enough to hide his gun.
The gun had a tracking device, just like the phone, and would alert Darius when fired. But that was a risk Kit had to take.
Kit didn’t know why Dad was working with Bishop’s old partner, and he couldn’t afford to care. Caring was a luxury for safer times.
The trembling stopped. The fear was still there, but it was the necessary kind of fear. Not panic, but clarity. Kit needed to run. Every other thought could wait.
He pressed the garage door clicker and eased the car into drive. The door lifted too slowly, too loud. As soon as Kit had clearance, he would floor—
The foyer door slammed open behind the car. Kit glimpsed Darius surging in his rear-view mirror. Too late. The garage was open enough. Kit slammed on the gas.
Just as James leaped in front of the car.
Kit hit the brakes without thinking. Jerking against the seatbelt, his every thought fled. One moment of utter blankness.
James slapped both hands on the hood, rocking the car. “Where do you think you’re going?”
His voice was muffled by the window, but clear.
“Get out of the way!” Kit shouted.
James’s grin shone feral in the slanted house lights. “Go ahead and hit me.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Kit’s breath returned in quick, shallow gasps. This wasn’t the plan. He needed the plan.
A shadow covered the driver’s side window. Kit stared blankly at Darius’s ear, unwilling to meet his eyes. Darius lifted his hand, and Kit jumped at the knock on glass.
“Put the car in park, boy,” Darius said, nice and easy, and god Kit wanted to listen. “You don’t have to turn it off, just put it in park.”
More movement at the passenger side. Bishop was there too. Kit was surrounded. The only way he was getting out of this was running James over.
James probably wouldn’t die. He could afford good medical care. Kit still couldn’t do it. Slow and shaky, he put the car in park.
Darius yanked the door open and seized Kit’s arm.
“What the fuck,” Kit hissed, struggling uselessly. “The car was locked.”
“It’s my car. I have a key.” Darius reached past to unbuckle Kit’s seatbelt. “I unlocked it when I knocked on the window.”
He dragged Kit from the car. Not harshly, but not gently, and there was no hope of resistance. Kit usually liked being overpowered by his men. Now he felt like a caged bird, battering iron bars with broken wings.
Bishop leaned through the passenger door and snagged the key. When he straightened, he had Kit’s backpack in hand. “That was smart with the mugs.”
“Fuck you,” Kit said, because being angry was easiest. No. He was pretending to be angry. Feeling anything real was too fucking hard. “Fuck all of you.”
James stalked closer, that feral smile gone. “Not now, babe. First, we’re going inside and having a real honest talk.”
Wait. Maybe this was okay. They were mad he was running away, but they didn’t know why. Kit could invent a new story. Say Laird Renaker was part of Ed Addersen’s gang, even though it was the opposite.
The foyer door hung open, and Holden leaned in the doorway. His arms crossed, defensive. Kit had never seen that expression on his pet psychopath before.
Guilt.
“What did you tell them?” Kit demanded, struggling. Darius’s grip tightened, shoving his sleeve up awkwardly.
“Just that your asshole dad broke out of prison,” Holden said, nonchalant as ever. But he avoided eye contact. “It seemed relevant.”
Just a name and a face. But that would lead James, Darius, and Bishop to the truth. All the little kids who died in Kit’s place. The obsession that shaped Kit, without him even knowing until it was too late.
Darius’s hand hadn’t loosened, but Kit could hardly feel it. His own body was distant. Out of control. Like he was back in the Vilton police station, slowly realizing that once he shared something, it didn’t belong to him anymore.
Broken secrets couldn’t be glued back together.
“I trusted you,” Kit said faintly.
Holden finally looked up, his eyes red around the edges. “I’m still figuring out this whole love thing. But it doesn’t mean letting you hurt yourself. Those secrets are sharp, darling.”
James pressed forward, inescapable, and tipped Kit’s chin up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Holden’s right. You aren’t running away from us that easy.”
Kit’s chest tightened. Everyone was too close. He was trapped. Not the good kind of trapped, arms bound, face shoved into the mattress, body adored beyond its limits.
“There’s no need to run,” Darius said calmly. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll handle it together.”
He let go of Kit and pushed James back. Sensing Kit needed space, because he was too observant, just like the rest of them. And Kit couldn’t go anywhere, because Bishop had the keys, and trying to outrun these guys would be humiliating.
Damn it. Kit did need space, but the consideration hurt too. Kit should never have allowed himself to be known.
“You don’t understand,” Kit managed. “I can’t be with anyone. It isn’t safe. I need to…”
Yet he had never truly survived on his own. Even when he was numb and broken, hiding, he relied on Dad’s connections. The fake ID from Smith. The spare room from Uncle Ed.
“You need to come inside,” Bishop said gently. He moved away, more directly between Kit and the driveway. “We’ll sit down, have a drink, talk…”
Bishop kept droning on with stupid reasonable things. Kit stopped listening, attention caught by something behind Bishop. Movement in the bushes, which were lit, but not as brightly as the garage.
A crouched figure, adjusting position.
Kit didn’t think. He just lunged forward, drew his gun, and fired.