Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
AMELIA
The ride back to the shop is much different than the one to our little wooded getaway. For one thing, he wasn’t all talk. I can still feel his cum dripping out of me, legs spread on the passenger seat of the bike, pussy sore from the way he owned me how he did. Every rumble of the bike sends a reminder straight through my core and into my clit about what just happened.
I’m not complaining, just very aware of my current state of fucked and fucked well by Weston Grady .
By the time we get back to the garage, to his pickup, I think I might be ready for another round, which is saying something, because when we left I thought I’d need an ice pack and a couple days to recover. But if I haven’t said it before, this man is magic in more ways than one.
Weston parks the bike inside the shop, wiping down all the surfaces we…touched.
While he works, Wyatt comes out of the office, face drawn.
“Do you have your phone on you?” he asks me.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
Weston comes over, freshly washed hands on his hips. “What’s up, man?”
“Take her home,” Wyatt tells Weston. “Rory’s been trying to reach you both.”
Dread grips my insides, icing my windpipe as it settles throughout my gut.
Weston pats down his jeans, looking for his phone. “I left it in the truck.”
Wyatt surprises us all, himself included, when he pulls me in for a hug. “I’m really sorry about everything you’ve been through. Including what I put you both through.” His voice sounds gruff, out of practice, like that was new for him.
I blink away my confusion and whisper, “Um, thanks.”
Weston places a hand on my low back and walks me to the truck, opening the passenger door for me to get in, closing it behind me, and then jumping in on his side. He shakes his head as he does. “And to think, just a few weeks ago I felt sorry for me and Wyatt’s childhood. That we went through divorce as teens. I think I actually considered it the worst thing a child can experience.”
I snort. “Haven’t I told you before that trauma is a scale? We all think what we’ve been through is pretty tough. But the more you go through, the wider your scale gets. Your position on it never really changes, just your perception of how bad the world can get does.”
Weston stops backing out of the parking spot and just stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re really fucking smart, you know that?”
“Not smart enough to keep what happened to me as a kid from my dad,” I say wistfully.
“You shouldn’t have had to, darlin’. Every little girl should be able to trust her dad. That’s on him, not on you.”
If I had any tears left after this past week, they’d be brimming right now, but between being all cried out and my anxiety reaching a new high after Wyatt’s cryptic words, my eyes are dry.
His hand comes down on my leg with a soft noise, thumb swiping a calming rhythm on my thigh as he drives us back to where the van is parked at an overlook not too far off the highway, one that very few people frequent.
Even the gorgeous surroundings and the early summer wind in my hair through the open windows can’t keep my stomach from trying to leap out of my throat at not knowing what’s going on and how bad things are. The optimist in me is strangely quiet right now. Maybe she finally offed herself and let the pessimist take over for good. I could hardly blame her if so, it was one hell of a tough job.
When we get there, I rush inside, picking my phone up from the countertop where it’s laying by my laptop and gasping at the amount of missed calls, texts, and FaceTimes. Mostly from Rory, a few from Lexi, and some from unknown numbers, which is rare.
Weston follows me in the van, the sliders rolling and clicking shut as he closes the door behind us and seats himself on the bed as I dial Rory back.
Her face fills my screen, brow as low as the Botox lets it go, face as serious as I’ve ever seen it.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“My van.”
“I have to tell you something and you’re not going to like it. Is Weston there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, standing up to get in the frame of our video call.
“The article came out.” Rory drops the bomb, letting us both lose our balance as it gets a direct hit. “I’m not going to bullshit you, it’s not great.”
Weston’s hand comes down on my back, rubbing soothingly, but I’m itchy all over and shake it off.
Resting the phone vertically, leaning against the wall, I free my hands so I can pace the van. Weston tries to back out of my way, but everywhere he goes is exactly where I’m trying to pace, and my irritation flares higher than it should from the mild inconvenience thanks to the anxiety.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Imagine all the worst parts of the story you told us, without any of the perspective you shared.”
Weston’s eyes close, like that’s the worst news he could’ve imagined. Such a sweet man, to not be able to imagine anything worse than that. A good man, pure of heart. Too good for me, the daughter of a monster, who’s been outed against her will and whose reputation as damaged goods will now precede her.
“I need to be alone,” I say out loud.
“I understand,” Rory says.
“Don’t hang up,” I tell her, pointing to the screen.
A terrible silence hangs for painful seconds, and then, “It’s me?” Weston’s voice is high, hand to his chest. “ I’m the one you want to go?”
“I need to be alone,” I repeat.
He nods his head, stepping toward the door, uncertainty in his eyes even while he’s trying to obey my request.
“Sure, yeah, I can, uh, yeah.”
I step closer to him and speak quietly. “Look. I’m good, we’re good, I just need to process this alone. It’s my fallout from my shitty life. I’ll see you tonight, okay? Just give me this.”
He nods, and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he backs down the stairs and lets himself out of the van. I don’t stay to watch him leave, but I hear the door close as I make it back to the phone, and Rory who’s on it.
“Read it to me,” I tell her.
“I don’t think that’s?—”
“Read it.”
She takes a deep breath and nods, pulling it up on her phone, I’m guessing from the new angle of her on my screen.
“‘The Next Generation of Killers,’” Rory reads the title, lips thinned in restrained anger.
Misleading as fuck, but what did I expect?
“‘Infamous Santa Slayer, Artie Sanford, murdered five innocent people one snowy December day in Minnesota, fifteen years ago. A loving husband and father, he seemingly snapped over pressure to provide for his family at Christmas, brutally and fatally stabbing two mall Santas, an elf, a security guard, and a newlywed man before being taken out by local police, fourteen minutes after his killing spree began.’”
The usual lies, nothing new there.
Rory’s eye twitches, but she keeps going. “‘In this installment of The Next Generation of Killers: Where are They Now , we at Snoop Scoop are finding the people who loved the worst humanity has to offer and explore what they’re doing with their lives now. Who’s following in their family’s footsteps, and who is carving their own path?’”
Loved the worst humanity has to offer? They’re making it sound like we’re the freaks who wrote love letters to Charles Manson in prison, not children who lost a parent.
Rory’s voice wavers, and I see her lip tremble on the screen. She keeps reading anyway.
“‘This series examines topics like: is there an inherent societal risk? Does the risk factor stem from a biological trait that can be passed from one person to another through genetics? What is the FBI doing to profile dangerous individuals and stop them ahead of future violent crimes, and do they take genetics into account?’”
These sick fucks. Insinuating that I should be investigated because of my genetics, that I’m destined to follow in my father’s past, that I’m a future killer. How is this not libel?
I bite back the nausea and try to focus. The buzzing in my ears makes it hard to catch everything Rory reads, but I try. “‘In this installation, we’ll explore how do Artie’s kids feel about him now? Do they admire him, are they living up to his legacy? Neither of his children, Randall (32), Angel (27), responded to our requests for comment, so let’s take a look at their current lives and you can decide for yourself.’”
My vision blurs, everything around me fading in and out as my heart rate soars.
Rory stops talking, and the angle of her camera changes so she’s no longer in frame. I hear muffled sounds, and when she comes back into view her eyes are rimmed in red.
I envy her release of emotion. I feel none.
“It goes on to talk about your brother’s criminal past, his various arrests and charges, and then they share the name you’re using now, where you are, and every single thing they could find about you through official records over the years.”
I know she’s trying to spare me from the worst of it, but I’m not sure that’s helping. For me, the unknown is always the worst part.
Still, I say nothing.
When she speaks again, it’s a thick whisper. “Amelia, I’m scared that the way they found you was through the grant application.”
My eyelids fall shut and I rock with the realization.
“It went to the state, filed in their records, and I wonder if that gave these people a current trail to follow on you.”
I nod, absolutely numb to everything.
I always thought if my world ended, it would be fiery, flaming bits of everything I’ve ever loved raining down around me.
Turns out, I feel nothing at all.
“I’m so sorry,” Rory says, face crumpling as her words break.
“I’m gonna go.”
The sound of Rory crying is the last thing I hear before I hang up the phone.
Numbness is weird. I don’t know how time works while I’m like this. I’m not sure if I’ve been sitting, laying, standing, or maybe just floating here.
At some point, I hear my van door try to open itself and that doesn’t seem right.
“Angel,” says the man’s voice on the other side. At least I think it’s a man. My ears are still filled with cotton.
I told Weston to leave me alone until tonight. Is it night already? Light streams in through the front windows that I didn’t bother covering before we left for our ride what feels like a lifetime ago, so it can’t be. Unless it’s tomorrow already?
“I told you I don’t wanna talk right now, Weston,” I say, exasperation leaking through my hollow voice.
Sliding the door open, expecting to see his golden face, I gasp at the face that’s waiting for me instead.
Pallid, scarred by acne and a lifetime of bad choices, a patchy moustache and stringy brown hair. Bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes that used to be blue stare back at me. It’s my father’s face, almost to a T, had my father not known basic hygiene and had a fondness for crystal meth.
Fear shatters the numbness I’ve been hiding in when I take in that face.
“Randall.”
“Angel.”
I back up, one foot up the stairs at a time as I reverse into my van, hands fumbling behind me on the countertops, searching, heart pounding a rhythm my veins can only try to keep up with.
Randall lunges for my phone, finding it before I do, and stuffing it in his back pocket. He doesn’t realize that’s not what I was after.
“I’m just here to talk,” he says, hands up, like he hasn’t been threatening me since I left home.
I always knew this was a likely outcome for me, and even though I’ve spent years preparing for the eventuality, it doesn’t mean I’m not shaking in my literal boots right now.
It’s convenient how loud my breathing is. Hopefully it covers the noises I’m making. My body blocking his view, I feel around in the drawer behind me for one of the six folding knives I keep in the van at different strategic locations in case this day ever came.
Ironic, right? The daughter of the Santa Slayer, crippled by his legacy, yet having so many knives for her own protection?
The nearest can of mace is too far away, but I’ve got what I need right here.
“We don’t need to talk. I have nothing to say to you,” I spit at him.
“Then you’re going to listen to me. It took me long enough to find you, you sneaky little bitch. Thought you could hide from me forever? I’ve been working for years to smoke you out.”
“You’re so clever.” My voice drips with disdain. “Letting a reporter do your dirty work for you. Couldn’t find me yourself?”
“I did find you myself.”
“Sure,” I nod at him. “It’s just coincidence that you show up at my door hours after the article comes out doxxing me.”
All he’s had to hold over me all these years is the threat of exposing me, and someone beat him to it. Must suck to be him.
Baring his teeth, Randall brings a hand up in front of his face and forms a fist.
The handle of the knife bites into my palm as I grip it harder behind my back, ready for whatever comes next.
Questions pound through my mind, faster than I can answer.
Is he high right now?
Is he going to turn me into a killer, just like our father?
How far away is help when I really need it?
Why oh why did I send Weston away earlier?
My brother clenches his hand, like he’s squeezing a can, and leans forward in a threat. Breathing heavily, his grotesque breath curls the hairs in my nostrils, and I fight not to screw my eyes up in disgust and retch. Then he drops his fist.
Seething, his chest rises and falls with his angry breaths. “I found your vehicle registration. Once I had the name you’re using now and your plate number, it took me a couple months, but I was able to track you down. I didn’t use no damn reporter.”
I bolster myself, trying to sound braver than my frantic pulse and shaking knees make me seem. “You mean you stole my registration? Out of mom’s mailbox? And then what, you paid off some creep at the DMV like you’re in some shitty movie?”
Randall barks a laugh, manic in a way that makes every hair on my arms stand on end. “It’s called the dark web, Angel. You can get anything if you know where to look.” He snorts. “And Dad always said you were the smart one.”
A lifetime of acrid rage and helpless despair pumps through my veins, fueling me. “Don’t talk about Dad!”
What our father did was bad enough, no child should ever have to go through that. But for my brother to hold it over my head and refuse to let me move on? He’s actively tried to harm me every day of our lives, which in some ways, feels just as evil.
Behind my back, I press the button and the blade springs free. The click is so soft that he probably doesn’t hear it above the blood rushing in his ears right now at finally finding me, cornering me, so he can bully me in person after all this time. The prick has probably been fantasizing about this day for as long as I’ve been dreading it. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was foam at the sides of his mouth right now.
“You can’t tell me what to say or not say about Dad. It’s your fault he’s gone.”
My response is instantaneous. “It’s not my fault he’s gone. It’s his fault he’s gone. He was the one who chose to react the way he did.”
That’s something I’m not sure I fully believed until confiding in Weston, Lexi, and Rory, but saying it out loud, I realize I believe it now. It gives me some extra strength to scare him off.
I just hope it’s enough.
“That smart mouth of yours has gotten this family in enough trouble, don’t you think? Why don’t you shut it, give me what’s left of the death benefit, and you can go back to hiding from the world like the useless little brat you are.”
He’s still so hung up on his fantasy, so delusionally psychotic, that he doesn’t believe the money has been gone since before he’s even known about it.
Randall has been so fixated on the hope of a free ride that he’s never so much as considered there would be nothing for him to take if he ever got this far in his search.
He leans forward again, pressing too close to me, trying intimidation tactics that might’ve worked on an earlier version of Angel.
Maybe Avery would’ve cowed under this confrontation.
Amelia is certainly wishing like hell she had the capacity to ask for help when she needs it, because this is the scariest day I’ve had since that day, and someone here in my corner with me might make all the difference. But I’m on my own, just like always, and it’s time to get rid of him once and for all.
I just can’t stop thinking one thought.
Now he has nothing to hold over me, or Mom, either.
Maybe insanity does run in the family, because I burst out laughing.
“What is this? Why are you laughing?”
The confusion on his face—so similar to our father’s in some ways, but so much worse in others—it makes me laugh even harder.
Maybe I can only take so much damage before I break.
Maybe this is where I turn truly insane.
Or maybe the human psyche can only take so much damage before it rejects, instead of accepts, anything new.
Whatever mechanism of self-protection my mind has chosen to employ, the laughter is uncontrollable. A lifetime of trauma spilling over in the weirdest way as tears of laughter stream down my face from how insanely fucked all of this is.
How Randall has tried for more than eight years to track me down, and he finally does on the same day that his one and only threat becomes invalid.
“I can’t!” I scream, one arm waving in front of my face as I’m doubled over laughing, and that just throws him even more.
“Angel, stop, you’re freaking me out!” He pushes my shoulder, trying to nudge me out of my fit of hysterics, but it doesn’t work.
Through the laughter, I manage to speak. “Do you believe in cosmic karma, big brother?”
He just stares at me, absolutely lost. It takes a minute, but I manage to sober up, standing straight, knife still in hand, ready if I need it.
“There hasn’t been any money this entire time, Randall. You didn’t believe Mom, and you’ve wasted all these years trying to out me for something I never even had. I donated what was left of it to charity before you ever even knew that it existed. That’s where Dad’s legacy belongs. Doing some good to those who were harmed. Not supporting your habit.”
“You’re lying,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Look around,” I offer. “Do you see a stash of money? Designer things I might’ve bought with it? No. I used part of it on an education, part of it on this van, to get the hell away from where we came from, and then I gave the rest away. I’ve been supporting Mom with my earnings since I was nineteen, Randall, and living on the change that’s leftover. Because you’ve kept her trapped in the only shitty job she can get back home, and it’s not enough to keep the heat on. But now she’s free!”
I giggle again and there’s fear in his eyes when he realizes there’s nothing but truth to what I’m saying. Or that might just be at how absolutely insane I appear.
He pulls back an arm, holding his fist by his head, but he’s not gonna hit me. This is him trying one last threat in case I’m really sitting on another 10K he could take as a consolation prize.
I twirl the knife between my fingers behind my back, praying I don’t have to use it.
Where is the help I sent out a silent plea for? Come on, universe. Today’s the day you can start looking out for me. Any time, now.
With all the menace I can muster, I speak low and slow. “You’re going to leave, Randall. I don’t care where you go, but you’re going to leave and never come back. Don’t reach out to me, or to Mom, ever again. Is that clear?”
His face contorts into something even more unattractive than his usual expression. “And what are you going to do about it if I don’t?” he asks.
He remembers the tiny, doll-like, fragile girl he grew up with. Today he’s meeting the fierce woman who’s spent nearly a decade planning for this moment. Self-defense is only the backup plan. The real goal is to crush the hope he’s been holding onto, scare him off for good so Mom and I are both finally free, then turn him over to the law. The closer I get to that finish line, the steadier my breaths are coming, the stronger my stance, and the firmer my voice.
“I’m going to do what Mom should’ve done years ago. Get law enforcement involved. File charges. You gotta be close to your third strike now, how’s life behind bars sound? Scrawny boy like you, you’d make a real nice bottom for some whole cell block to pass around. You don’t get lockjaw easy, do you? These country boys out here are hung thick.”
One of my forearms swings up to demonstrate. His face drains of the little color it had to start, and I smirk.
“I’ll be a good sister just this once and warn you, my attorney is even scarier than the cops or your next prison daddy. And if all that’s not enough to keep you away…”
My hand comes out from behind my back, four-inch blade glinting in the under-cabinet lighting.
That shit really does go with everything, I’m glad I splurged on it for Van Gogh. Soft lighting that enhances every mood. Including vengeance.
He does a double take, maybe not believing his eyes.
“I’ll make sure you never bother anyone again myself.” My grin curls up, letting more of my crazy out for him to see.
Randall backs up now, genuine terror on his face.
Knife-Wielding Psycho Carves Up Anyone in the Way .
I wonder if my brother is recalling the same headlines I am, seeing them reimagined in reference to us instead of my father.
I might never actually do it, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Stepping forward, pushing him to the door with every breath, I murmur one last threat. “Don’t fuck with me. Don’t come near me or Mom ever again, and you can go.”
He nods, sallow, pocked cheeks wobbling with the motion.
Snapping my fingers several times rapidly, I point at the counter. “Put my phone back and fuck off.”
Randall pulls my cell out of his back pocket and places it on the counter with a muted thud, then high tails it out of my van.
Where he runs directly into Weston and Wyatt.