Chapter 22 Brayden
brAYDEN
I’ve never felt a stronger urge to break something than I do right now, watching Reverend Montgomery pace the police station’s dingy waiting area.
He stalks back and forth in tight lines, shiny leather shoes clicking against the scuffed linoleum, the only marker of the endless minutes we've been stuck in this hellhole while Cece sits in a holding cell.
“Could you please sit down?” I finally growl, the words dragging out of my throat, rough and sharp. “You're making me fucking dizzy.”
The Reverend halts mid-stride, his Bible clutched to his chest, held high as though it’s armor. The look he sends me could strip the paint off the walls.
“Watch your language, young man. This is a house of the law.”
I snort. “More of a house of bullshit, if you ask me.”
His face reddens, that particular shade I’m starting to recognize far too well. “This attitude isn't helping my daughter,” he says, each word tight enough to snap.
“And your pacing isn’t doing a damn thing either,” I shoot back. “At least I’m not the one who spent years defending the bastard who put her in there.”
The words hit him hard. His shoulders lock up, tension rolling through him. For a moment, I honestly think he might hurl that Bible at my skull. Instead, he swallows whatever sermon he’s choking on.
I drop into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the wall. Every muscle in my body aches from holding too much anger with nowhere to put it. I check my watch for what has to be the hundredth time. The church’s lawyer should’ve been here an hour ago.
“Where the hell is your attorney?” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
The Reverend glances at the station clock, his own impatience finally showing through his righteous facade. “Harold is very reliable. He's never been late for church business.”
“This isn't church business,” I remind him. “This is your daughter being railroaded by your golden boy ex-son-in-law.”
He sits down heavily in the chair across from me, looking suddenly older than his years. “Harold has handled the church's legal matters for twenty years. He knows what he's doing.”
“And how many criminal cases has he handled?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “Tax exemptions and property disputes aren't the same as assault charges.”
Before he can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the caller ID and feel a surge of relief.
“It's my aunt,” I tell him, standing up to take the call.
Jillian's voice comes through clear and pissed off. “I just heard what happened. That little shit Ethan is dead meat.”
“Get in line,” I growl, walking a few paces away from the Reverend. “Have you talked to Joe?”
“He's on his way. As am I.”
“Good,” I say, running a hand over my face. “We need Joe. This church lawyer sounds like he handles bake sales and property easements, not criminal defense.”
“Damn right. That Kincaid boy's father has half the town in his pocket. But we've got connections of our own.”
“How fast can Joe get here?” I check my watch again. Cece's been in holding for almost three hours.
“He was in court when I called, but he said he’d be there as fast as he could. And Brayden?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't do anything stupid before he gets there.” Her tone makes it clear she knows exactly what I'm thinking. “I mean it. You getting arrested won't help Cece.”
“I'm not making any promises,” I mutter, watching as another deputy walks past, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “These assholes know exactly what they're doing.”
“That's why we need to be smarter than them. Joe will handle it.”
I end the call and turn back to find the Reverend staring at me, his expression unreadable.
“Who is Joe?” he asks.
“Joseph Mendez. Best criminal defense attorney in three counties.” I tuck my phone away. “Your church lawyer handles paperwork and tax exemptions. Mendez handles real fights.”
“We can't afford—”
“I'm paying,” I cut him off.
“I don't need your charity,” the Reverend recoils. Pride clearly getting the better of him. Pride he’s going to have to shove down because it’s not going to help his daughter’s situation.
“It's not charity,” I snap, my patience hanging by a thread. “It's for Cece, not you.”
We stare at each other across the dingy waiting room, two men who couldn't be more different yet somehow find ourselves on the same side of this mess. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face that make him look haggard and worn.
“My daughter is all I have left. Her mother would never have allowed this to happen.”
Something in his tone catches me off guard—genuine grief, maybe even regret. For a second, I see past the judgmental preacher to the father beneath. A father who, despite his many flaws, loves his daughter in his own fucked-up way.
“Then let's get her out of here. Your lawyer isn't showing. Mine will be here soon. Swallow your pride and let me help.”
Before he can answer, the station door swings open with a bang. A man in an expensive suit strides in, his silver hair slicked back, his smile as fake as the Rolex on his wrist. Fucking Richard Kincaid.
My fists twitch at my sides. Every instinct in me wants to drive Kincaid into the nearest wall.
But I stay still. Not yet.
This is not the alley behind a bar. This is the sheriff’s station with witnesses, and a man who performs best when he has an audience. He wants me to lose control. He wants a scene he can twist.
I force my voice calm. Cold. “You talk about the law as if it belongs to you. Your son assaulted her, and now you are trying to bury it.”
Kincaid’s expression shifts for a heartbeat. A small crack in the smug mask he hides behind. It seals up again almost instantly.
“Harsh accusations,” he murmurs, chin lifted. “Reputations in this town are fragile. She has already damaged hers.”
The words hit me harder than any punch. She is in a cell behind those doors, alone, and he is still trying to paint her as the problem.
My teeth grind. “Her reputation means nothing to me. The truth does. Your son pinned her in that bathroom. Grabbed her. Humiliated her. She is not the one who should be sitting in a cell right now.”
The room goes still. Deputies who pretended to ignore us are openly watching now.
Kincaid’s jaw tightens. “You have made powerful enemies. I hope you understand that.”
My vision heats. “I do. I understand exactly what kind of man you are. And you should remember something, Richard. I have toppled men far more powerful than you. You and your boy will answer for what happened.”
He adjusts his cufflinks, stiff and deliberate, as if this is a board meeting instead of a threat spoken in front of half the sheriff’s staff.
“Do not count on rescuing her today,” he says, already turning away. “Cells have a way of swallowing girls her age. Men such as you, though…you vanish into places like this without anyone blinking.”
I release a slow breath and stare down the hallway leading to her cell.
My hands are still unsteady—not from fear, but from holding myself back.
She’s back there, depending on me, and I will not fail her.
I swear on every oath I’ve ever broken that I’ll get her out.
Richard Kincaid doesn’t get the final word. Not today. Not ever again.
“Careful, Mr. Cole. Threatening an elected official is a serious offense. One more to add to your impressive record, perhaps?” His smile is all teeth, no warmth. “Though I suppose compared to your other crimes, it would barely register.”
The front desk deputy shifts nervously, his hand still hovering near his weapon. I force myself to take a step back, even though every muscle in my body screams to lunge forward and wipe that smug look off Kincaid's face.
“My son has filed a legitimate complaint,” Kincaid continues, smoothing his tie. “The evidence speaks for itself.”
“Evidence?” I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “You mean the marks on her wrists that your precious son left when he cornered her in a bathroom?”
“These are serious allegations, Mr. Cole. If you have evidence of such an assault, I suggest you file a report.” His tone suggests he knows exactly how that would go in a department that answers to him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to the Sheriff.”
I feel a red haze descending over my vision.
I've only felt this kind of rage a handful of times in my life, and it's never ended well for whoever was on the receiving end.
The deputy's hand is still on his weapon, but I'm beyond caring.
All I can see is Kincaid's smug face, and all I can think about is Cece sitting in a cell because of this man's son.
“You son of a bitch,” I snarl, stepping forward again despite the deputy's warning posture. “You know exactly what your boy did.”
The Reverend's hand lands on my arm, his grip surprisingly strong for a man his age. “Brayden, don't. This is what he wants.”
I shrug him off, but the momentary interruption is enough to clear my head slightly. Kincaid is watching me with the calculated patience of a man who's spent decades manipulating situations to his advantage. He wants me to lose control. Wants me to give him an excuse.
“Listen to the good Reverend, Mr. Cole,” Kincaid says, his voice dripping with false concern. “Violence is never the answer. Isn't that right, Thomas?”
The Reverend's face is a mask of barely controlled fury, but he manages a stiff nod. “Richard, I'm asking you as someone who's known you for thirty years. Drop these charges. You know Cecelia didn’t do this.”
Kincaid sighs, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “The justice system must run its course. I can't interfere with due process simply because we've known each other for years.”
“Due process?” I bark out a laugh. “Is that what you call this railroading?”
The station door swings open again, and a balding man in an ill-fitting suit hurries inside, clutching a worn leather briefcase to his chest. He’s breathing hard—clearly sprinted from the parking lot.