Chapter 13 – Damian
Chapter Thirteen
DAMIAN
The heat presses down on me, thick and stifling, but it’s got nothing on the fury curling tight in my chest, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest excuse to explode.
I rake a hand through my hair, my fingers digging in at my scalp before I drop them, my hands flexing, needing something to hit.
I pace the length of the porch, muscles wound so tight I feel like I might snap.
She probably ran away from you.
Marlowe’s voice slams into me, sharp and fucking cruel, like she took a knife and buried it straight into my ribs.
She had the goddamn nerve to say that. Like my mother, my mother, would just up and leave because she was embarrassed of me. Of us. Like she had a choice in any of this. Like I haven’t been up every damn night for weeks, knowing her memory is slipping faster than I can catch it.
And now she’s gone.
Where the hell would she go? Where could she go?
I grit my teeth, my hands balling into fists at my sides.
I should have been here. I should have made sure she was safe. But no, I had to deal with Vick and his bullshit. If something happens to my mother because of him, I swear to God I’ll put him six feet under myself.
Fucking hell, I don’t even know where to start. When we pulled up, I really thought we’d find her inside, sitting in her recliner, watching some mind-numbing daytime TV like always.
Now I have nothing. No clues. No fucking plan.
Do I waste time calling the authorities? Or do I just get out there and start looking? Where, the roads? The old trails? Where the hell do I even begin?
She’s out there. Alone. Somewhere. And if something’s happened to her—
The door creaks open behind me. I hear the soft scuff of light steps, careful, hesitant.
Marlowe. I know it’s her before she even opens her mouth, but I don’t turn, don’t acknowledge her.
“I’m really sorry about your mom.” The words are like striking a match on dry wood.
I turn before I can stop myself, anger boiling over. “What do you care?”
She flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough. Good. Let her feel some of this rage. This is all her father’s fault.
Her mouth tightens. “Because I’m a fucking nice person, and someone with dementia who is lost might be scared and all alone. I do care.”
I let out a low, humorless laugh. “Sure you do.”
She shifts her weight, crossing her arms over her chest. “Look, I can maybe help you find her.”
My jaw clenches so tight it aches. “What?”
She exhales, long and slow. “I will help you find her,” she says, steadily, like she’s made up her mind.
I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her concern. I want to put my fist through something. But right now, I need to find my mom. Then I’ll deal with Marlowe, with Vick, with all of this shit I never asked for.
“What was her name?”
“Was?” The word slams into me like a fist to the throat.
My gut twists, tight and sharp, like a blade’s been buried deep, twisting with every second that passes.
Heat rises up my neck, raw and burning. My glare locks onto her, my hands clenching tighter at my sides.
“Her name is Delilah.” My voice is low, rough, barely holding back the storm inside me.
My mother isn’t gone. She isn’t a fucking was. Not until I see otherwise.
Her face pales. “I’m sorry. I have no idea why I said was.” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. Her fingers twitch at her neck, and for the first time since I met her, she actually looks like she’s telling the truth.
“Whatever.” I turn away. I can’t do this. I need to get inside, make calls, figure out a plan with my brothers. Splitting up is best; we’ll cover more ground that way.
“Don’t take this out on me,” she snaps. “I said I would help you.”
Is she still talking?
She moves in front of me before I can reach the door, her hand reaching for the handle, pulling it open.
I freeze, my body vibrating with frustration.
Why the fuck is she in my way?
Marlowe steps into the house first, and somehow, somehow, she takes control of the situation.
I don’t know how. I don’t even know why.
One second, I’m storming inside, ready to do shit, and the next, she’s moving like she owns the goddamn place. Her voice is sharp and steady: “Does she have a phone?” she asks, turning to Bridger.
He blinks at her, clearly thrown by the sudden demand. “Uh… yeah. But she left it here. It’s in her bedroom.”
Marlowe doesn’t hesitate. “Okay, go get it. Go through her recent calls, texts, whatever. Call her friends. See if anyone has talked to her or knows where she might have gone.”
Bridger looks at me like he’s waiting for me to shut her down, to tell her to back the hell off. But I don’t—because as much as it pisses me off, she’s not wrong.
Grumbling under his breath, he stalks off toward Mom’s bedroom, disappearing down the hall.
Marlowe barely gives him a second glance before she turns to Cody. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
Cody rubs a hand over his face, looking wrecked. “Last night. I put her to bed. She was in her pajamas when I last checked. Sound asleep.”
Marlowe’s eyes narrow. “Did she say anything weird before she went to bed?”
Cody lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “You mean, besides thinking it was twenty years ago?”
Fucking hell.
Marlowe straightens. “She thought it was twenty years ago?”
Cody nods. “Yeah. She was talking like she still worked at the school.” His jaw tightens. “Kept asking if Damian hid her car keys again, she didn’t want to be late for work or for us to be late for school.”
Fuck.
Marlowe nods, thinking, processing, already piecing things together like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Okay, then she probably left thinking she needed to get to work.”
It’s such a simple thought, something that should have been obvious, but I was too fucking angry to ask the right questions and get there on my own.
Marlowe looks at me then, her lips pressed together, chin slightly lifted, eyes steady and unflinching.
There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, just a sharp focus that makes my skin itch.
It’s the look of someone who’s already three steps ahead, waiting for me to catch the hell up. “So, where’s the school?”
I grit my teeth. I hate that she’s here. I hate that she’s taking charge. I hate that she’s making me feel like I’ve already failed before I even started.
But I hate even more that she’s probably right.
“Not far,” I mutter.
“Then that’s where we start.”
She’s already moving, already heading for the door, and somehow, I find myself following her.
What the fuck just happened?