Chapter Nineteen
~ Ransom ~
You’d be amazed what passes for “clean” in a tattoo shop that’s just survived a hate crime and a forensic sweep.
There are the bits you notice right away—shattered glass, the scorched line of chemicals on the floor where the arson attempt fizzled out, the flash art still dangling sideways on thumbtacks like a drunk’s last attempt at home decor.
But then there are the invisible layers: the stink of burnt plastic, the powdery residue from whatever industrial extinguisher Knox found in the barn, the way even the light looks dirtier, like it’s had to wade through three weeks of cigarette ash before landing on your skin.
Knox had insisted we get to the shop by eight. “First day of your new life, bro,” he’d said, which was either an attempt at pep talk or just his way of not letting me sleep through the depression.
Newt came along too, because apparently the kid had nothing better to do than watch two grown men argue about the proper use of an orbital sander.
He hovered in the doorway, hands jammed in his hoodie, chewing on a piece of black licorice that looked like it had gone through the wash at least twice.
I started with the easy stuff: sweep up the broken glass, stack the ruined furniture in a corner, pull the masking tape off the walls and see if the paint underneath would even hold a nail anymore.
Every time I turned around, I found something else fucked up—an ink bottle exploded behind the sink, the main neon sign outside cracked in half, the shop safe—empty, thank you very much—left open in a gesture of pure, pointless cruelty.
It was like someone had made a list of everything I loved and then run it through a wood-chipper.
But I kept at it. We all did. Newt, when he realized there was no actual tattooing to gawk at, decided to inventory my old flash books and “salvage what’s not bled on, dude.”
Knox took the brunt of the heavy lifting, dragging out the burnt counter and cussing at the stain it left on the floor. He had a way of making even the most domestic violence look like a military op—every time I started to wallow, he barked an order and I found myself doing it, no questions asked.
The bell over the door had survived. Every time it jingled, I flinched. There was no reason to; the only people left in town who hated me enough to break in now were probably already in holding or bleeding from their own stupidity.
I was elbow-deep in a bin of melted tattoo tubes when my phone buzzed. Not a text. A call. Which was rare enough these days to feel like an act of God.
I wiped my hands on a rag and thumbed the screen. The display said “Sheriff Hardesty,” which was both a relief and a new set of nerves.
I grinned, but only for Knox’s benefit. “Hey, babe,” I said, loud enough for the whole shop to hear.
Knox shot me a look, but didn’t comment. Newt giggled like someone had tickled his spleen.
On the other end, Floyd said, “Hey, yourself. You, uh—busy?”
I looked around. “Just doing my best impression of a FEMA disaster zone. What’s up?”
He paused. I could hear the murmur of voices in the background. “Just checking in,” he said, but the words were slow, deliberate, like he was testing them for meaning.
“That’s so sweet,” I said, playing it up. “Want me to order us a pizza and we can Netflix and ignore the community outrage together?”
Another pause. “Actually… I was calling about dinner,” Floyd said. “I got a little tied up with a thing over at your parents’ place. Didn’t want you to worry if I was late.”
I blinked. Knox caught it, because he never missed anything. “You’re at the homestead?” I said.
“Yeah,” Floyd said. “It’s kind of a big deal. Your mom made that bread you like, the sourdough. She said to tell you the whole family’s here. We’ll be sitting down in about an hour.”
I squinted, running the math in my head. My parents hated unannounced guests, and they didn’t do midweek family dinners. Hell, half the brothers were allergic to being in the same zip code at the same time. “You sure you’re at the right place?” I said, and tried to laugh, but it came out off.
“I’m looking at your mom’s prize roses right now,” he said, voice a little louder, like he wanted someone on his end to hear every word. “Knox is already here, and I’m bringing the salad.”
I glanced over at Knox, who was currently breaking down the back of the ruined tattoo chair with a crowbar.
I played along. “That’s weird,” I said. “Knox is right here with me. Maybe he’s got a twin?”
There was a long silence, then Floyd said, “Yeah. Maybe.” In the background, a door slammed. A woman’s voice—sharp, familiar—said something I couldn’t make out, then a second, younger voice chimed in. Neither sounded like my mom.
I got up and drifted to the front window, which looked straight across Main to the sheriff’s office.
The blinds in Floyd’s second-floor office were open, which was unusual for him.
I could see his silhouette at the desk, and behind him, two figures: one short and moving like she owned the place, one taller, ganglier, slouched like a teenager playing dead.
A spike of adrenaline hit, cold and perfect. “You want me to swing by with anything?” I asked, keeping my tone level. “I’ve got a fresh batch of the good stuff. If you’re into that.”
“Not tonight,” Floyd said. “Just… stick close to your brother, okay?”
I stared at the glass, caught my own reflection. I looked like I’d been through a war, which wasn’t far off. “Sure thing, boss. You call if you need me.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I will. Love you.”
He hung up before I could say it back.
I turned to Knox, who was already watching me like a crow on roadkill. “Something’s not right,” I said.
He nodded. “Figured.”
I laid it out for him, fast and dirty: the code talk, the “family dinner,” the voices in the background. “He’s being watched,” I finished. “And it’s not my mother he’s dining with.”
Newt looked up from the pile of flash books. “Was that the Sheriff? Is he in trouble?”
Knox’s mouth went hard. “If he is, it’s the same trouble we’ve always had.”
I tried to think—who would have the balls to walk into the Sheriff’s office and play house? Only one person I could imagine: Vivian. And, if rumors were true, her hellspawn of a stepson, Levi. Which made sense, if you were the sort of person who believed in fate and poetic justice.
“I need to go over there,” I said.
Knox put a hand on my shoulder. “Not alone, you don’t.”
He took out his phone, dialed Latham, and put him on speaker. The call was short and to the point: Floyd’s ex-wife was at the station, and she’d brought backup. There was a “family matter” brewing, and according to Latham, “it’s about to get nuclear.”
Knox pocketed the phone, then looked at me with a sort of resigned pride. “You ready to play hero, little brother?”
I glanced around the shop. The mess could wait. The business could wait. Only one thing mattered. “Let’s go,” I said.
Knox grabbed his jacket and, with a single nod, signaled to Newt, who looked at us both like he was being drafted into a cult but followed anyway.
On the way out, I locked the front door behind us. For a second, I hesitated, looking back at the battered counter, the ash, the ruined art. Then I shut the door and walked into the cold.
Family first. Always.
The McKenzie River Sheriff’s Department hadn’t changed since I was a kid.
Same scuffed tile, same bulletin board with the same “Drug-Free Is the Way to Be!” poster half-covered by mugshots and car accident PSAs.
Even the secretary, a battleship of a woman with reading glasses chained to her neck, hadn’t aged a day.
The only new thing was me: storming in with my boots slapping the linoleum like gunshots, Knox and Newt at my six, looking for all the world like we were here to repossess the entire building.
I blew past the secretary, who made a half-assed attempt to block me with a manila folder. “Excuse me, sir, you need to sign in—”
I didn’t bother. “Emergency family meeting,” I said, and kept going. She yelled something about protocol, but I was already at the door to Floyd’s office.
I didn’t knock. I just pushed the door open so hard it banged off the stop and rattled the blinds. It was dramatic, and I enjoyed the look on everyone’s faces.
Floyd was at his desk, stiff-backed in the good chair. The skin around his stitches was healing but still angry pink, and he looked like he’d spent the whole morning calculating which vein would blow out first.
Next to him, perched on the edge of the desk like a blonde gargoyle, was Vivian Hardesty.
I’d seen the ex-wife before at the hospital.
Up close, she was like a weapon disguised as a woman.
Petite, but coiled tight. Platinum bob, lipstick so sharp it looked like she could shank you with it.
She wore a suit the color of spoiled milk, with gold buttons marching up the sleeve.
Her nails were talons, French-tipped and ready for blood.
Across from her, slouched in a visitor’s chair and texting under the table, was a kid.
Levi, I guessed. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, with lanky arms and a permanent case of “fuck you” written into his slouch.
Dark hair, bad posture, boots untied. His face was all cheekbones and boredom, but the way his eyes flicked up told me he missed nothing.
No one said anything for a moment. Then Viv cocked her head and said, “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I ignored her and made a beeline for Floyd. He stood when I entered, out of instinct or habit, but the look he gave me was all apology and warning.
“Didn’t know we had company,” I said, eyes locked on his.
Viv slid off the desk and stepped between us, trying to block my path with sheer force of will. “We’re in the middle of a family discussion,” she said. “Whatever you need, it’ll have to wait.”