Chapter 24
Liam
Arnold’s face turns red, then purple, but his eyes still hold that cruel amusement that’s haunted my nightmares since childhood.
He struggles against me, his hands clawing at my arm, but I’m stronger now.
I’m not the six-year-old boy who watched in terror as he backhanded my mother across the kitchen.
I’m not the teenager who believed his lies about change and sobriety.
I’m not the young man whose arm he snapped like a twig when I tried to protect my mother.
The memories flood my mind, vivid as if they happened yesterday.
Six years old. The smell of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. My mother’s cries as my father’s hand connects with her cheek. The crash of dishes hitting the floor. Me hiding under the kitchen table, my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sounds.
“Liam, run,” my mother whispered later that night, packing a small bag while he slept off his drunken rage. “We need to go somewhere he can’t find us.”
We ran to Driftwood Cove, to Aunt Dee’s house, to a new life without him. For years, we were safe. We were happy.
Then, after high school, my mother told me he was back. That he wanted to reconcile. That he’d changed.
“He has a house now, Liam,” she said, her eyes filled with something I mistook for hope. “He’s done with drinking. He wants to be a father again.”
I’d been skeptical, but she’d been so desperate to believe. So we went. The house was huge, sprawling, with a view of the ocean. He’d seemed different—sober, apologetic, full of promises about the future.
For a few months, it was almost like having a real family. Almost.
Then he came home drunk one night. The cycle started again. The shouting, the breaking things, the fear in my mother’s eyes. Until the night I tried to stop him from hitting her. Until I heard the sickening crack of my own bone breaking.
“I told you what would happen,” he sneered as I lay on the floor, cradling my arm, the pain blinding. “Don’t ever get in my way again.”
We escaped again to Aunt Dee’s, where she helped us get the restraining order. When we returned to Driftwood, my mother promised we’d be safe here. That he’d never hurt us again.
But here he is. In our café. In our town. In our lives.
“Get off me,” Arnold chokes out, bringing me back to the present. His face is turning an alarming shade of purple.
I lean in closer, my forearm pressing harder against his throat. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“Just wanted to see my family,” he manages to gasp out.
“Bullshit,” I snarl, my anger boiling over. “You’re not here for family. You have no fucking family.”
I pull back slightly, then slam him against the wall again. His head hits with a dull thud, but he just laughs, a wet, gurgling sound.
“You always were too smart for your own good,” he says, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Just like your mother.”
“Don’t talk about her,” I warn, my hand balling into a fist.
“Why not?” he taunts. “She was always too proud to admit she needed me. Always thought she could do it all on her own. Look where that got her. A burned-out house and a son who thinks he’s a man.”
My fist connects with his jaw, the impact sending a shockwave up my arm. Blood sprays from his mouth, splattering across the wall. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, his eyes narrowing with rage.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
He lunges forward, his own fists flying. Punch after punch, each impact fueled by years of resentment and pain.
I can hear the sounds of the café around me—my mother’s cries, Aunt Dee’s shouts, Jessica’s frantic voice on the phone with the police.
But it’s all distant, muffled, as if I’m underwater.
All I can focus on is the man in front of me, the monster from my past who’s somehow materialized in my present.
His fist connects with my ribs, stealing my breath. I retaliate with a punch to his nose, feeling cartilage give way under my knuckles. He howls in pain, hands flying to his face.
“That’s for my mother,” I growl, following up with another punch to his stomach. “And that’s for me.”
He doubles over, gasping for air, but I’m not done. I grab him by the front of his shirt, pulling him up only to slam him against the wall again.
“You’re never coming back,” I repeat, my words punctuated by another punch. “You’re never going to hurt us again.”
The café door bursts open and Knox strides in, his gun drawn, his eyes scanning the room. “Police! Everybody freeze!”
For a moment, I don’t register his presence. I’m too focused on Arnold, on the years of pain I’m finally able to repay in kind.
“Liam, stop,” Knox says, his hand on my shoulder. “It’s over.”
I turn, my fist still raised, and see Knox standing there, looking at me with concern. Something inside me snaps.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl, shaking off his hand.
“Easy, son,” Knox says, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Just calm down.”
“I’m not your son,” I spit out, the words tasting like poison. “And I’m not calming down. Not while he’s still breathing.”
I turn back to Arnold, but Knox steps between us, blocking my path.
“That’s enough, Liam,” he says, his tone firm. “Step away.”
“Get out of my way,” I warn, my body vibrating with rage.
“I can’t do that,” Knox says. “You need to stand down.”
Something in his tone, that authoritative bite that reminds me so much of Arnold, sends me over the edge. Before I can think, before I can stop myself, my fist is flying.
It connects with Knox’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. The shock on his face is quickly replaced by anger.
“That was a mistake,” he says, rubbing his jaw.
Two deputies rush forward, grabbing me by the arms. I struggle against them, but they’re stronger than they look. My wrists are secured behind my back with cold metal cuffs.
“Let me go,” I growl, twisting in their grip. “I’m not done with him.”
“Yes, you are,” Knox says, his expression hard. “Assaulting a police officer is a serious charge, Liam.”
“He started it,” I protest, my eyes locked on Arnold, who’s being helped to his feet by another deputy.
“He’s under arrest, too,” Knox says. “But you just made things a lot worse for yourself.”
I’m dragged toward the door, my eyes searching for Millie. I find her huddled in a corner, my mother’s arms wrapped around her. There’s a gash on her forehead, blood matting her hair. Her eyes are wide with fear and confusion.
Our eyes meet, and I mouth the words, “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. Aunt Dee is talking to one of the deputies, her gestures sharp and emphatic. Jessica hovers nearby, her phone still clutched in her hand.
The deputies push me out the door and into the back of a police car. The door slams shut with a finality that makes my stomach drop. I watch through the window as Arnold is led to another car, his hands cuffed behind his back. He turns, catches my eye, and smirks.
Fuck.
Punching a sheriff. My own father is a deputy sheriff. There’s a good chance I’m spending the night in prison.
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. The adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a growing sense of dread. All the progress I’ve made, all the work I’ve done to build a life for myself and my mother, ruined in a matter of minutes.
And Millie. What will she think of me now? The man who lost control, who let his past dictate his present, who turned his mother’s café into a boxing ring.
I open my eyes as the car pulls away from the curb. Through the window, I see Millie emerge from the café, my mother still holding her.
She looks so small, so fragile, and I’ve failed to protect her. Just like I failed to protect my mother all those years ago.
The cycle of abuse. It’s real, and it’s vicious, and it just keeps repeating, no matter how hard you try to break it.
As we turn the corner, leaving the café behind, I can’t help but wonder if this is it. If this is the moment when everything falls apart for good.
Every bump in the road sends a jolt through my already aching body. My ribs throb where Arnold’s fist connected, my knuckles are split and raw, and my wrist screams in protest beneath the flimsy brace. But none of that compares to the sick feeling churning in my gut.
How the fuck can he be back?
Why the hell did he have to come back?
My life is officially a train wreck, and I’m the one driving it off the tracks.
We arrive at the station, a squat, brick building that’s seen better days.
The deputy, a young guy with a fresh face and a name tag that reads J.
COOPER, pulls me from the car, his grip firm but not rough.
He marches me through the front doors, the fluorescent lights overhead humming a tune that sets my teeth on edge.
“Booking’s this way,” he says, his tone flat and professional.
He leads me to a counter, where he takes my personal belongings—wallet, keys, phone—and places them in a plastic bag. I watch, my hands cuffed in front of me, a detached observer in my own downfall.
He takes my fingerprints, the ink cold and sticky against my skin, then snaps a mugshot. I can only imagine what I look like—hair a mess, a bruise already forming on my jaw, my eyes burning with a fury I can’t contain.
“Wait here,” Cooper says, leading me to a small, windowless room.
It’s painted a sickly shade of gray, with a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs on either side. The door clicks shut behind me, the sound echoing in the silence. I’m alone with my anger, a beast that’s been pacing inside me since I first saw Arnold’s smug face in our café.
I start to pace, the confines of the room too small to contain my restless energy. Every step sends a fresh wave of pain through my body, but I don’t care. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional turmoil raging inside me.
I see Millie’s face, pale and scared, the blood matting her hair. I see my mother’s tears, the fear in her eyes that I haven’t seen since I was a kid. I see Arnold’s smirk, the cruel twist of his lips that’s haunted my dreams for years.
And then there’s Knox. The look on his face when I punched him. Not just anger, but something else. Disappointment? Pity? I don’t know which is worse.
The door opens and Knox walks in, holding an ice pack to his jaw. The bruise is already starting to form, an ugly purple blotch on his skin. A fresh wave of guilt washes over me, but I push it down, replacing it with a surge of defiance.
“Your father is pressing charges,” Knox says, his tone all business. He places the ice pack on the table, then sits in the chair opposite me. “Assault and battery. He’s claiming you attacked him without provocation.”
I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Without provocation? He’s the one who showed up at our café, the one who touched Millie, the one who almost broke my arm again! There’s a restraining order against him.”
“I know,” Knox says, his gaze steady. “I know what happened. Jessica gave a full statement. So did your mother and your aunt.”
“Then why am I the one in cuffs?” I demand, my voice rising. “Why is he the one pressing charges?”
“Because he’s a deputy sheriff, Liam,” Knox says, his patience wearing thin. “That’s a serious offense, no matter the circumstances.”
I slump into the chair, the fight draining out of me. He’s right. I screwed up. I let my anger get the best of me, and now I’m paying the price.
“But I also know who he is,” Knox continues, his tone softening slightly. “And I know what he’s done. I understand more than you think.”
I look up, surprised by the change in his demeanor. There’s something in his eyes, a flicker of understanding that catches me off guard.
“My father was a cop too,” he says, his gaze distant for a moment. “A good one. But he had a temper. And when he drank, it was bad. I know what it’s like to grow up in a house like that. To walk on eggshells, to never know what’s going to set him off.”
I’m speechless. I never would have guessed. Knox always seems so in control, so put-together. The idea that he has a past like mine is... unsettling.
“I’m here to help, Liam,” he says, leaning forward. “But you need to meet me halfway. You need to calm down and let me do my job.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words feeling inadequate and foreign. “For punching you. I was out of line.”
Knox nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “Apology accepted. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Your father is pushing for the maximum penalty. He wants to make an example of you.”
“Of course he does,” I mutter, my anger flaring up again. “He’s always been a vindictive bastard.”
“I’m doing what I can to make sure you don’t spend the night in here,” Knox says, ignoring my outburst. “I’ve talked to the DA, explained the situation. The restraining order, the history of abuse. It helps that your mother and Aunt Dee are willing to testify.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns. “It’s not a done deal. But I’m optimistic. In the meantime, your mother is on her way. She should be here soon.”
My mother. The thought of her seeing me like this, in a police interrogation room, fills me with a fresh wave of shame. I’ve spent my whole life trying to protect her from him, and now I’ve brought this mess right back to her doorstep.
“Can you do something for me?” I ask, my mind racing. “Can you call Maddox? At the fire station. Tell him what happened. Tell him to check on Millie.”
Knox nods. “I’ll do it as soon as I leave here.”
“Thank you,” I say again, my gratitude genuine this time.
He stands up, looking grim. “Try to get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”
He leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. But this time, the anger is gone, replaced by a hollow ache. I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes, and let the exhaustion wash over me.