Chapter 64 Jansen #2
Trips rushes to help RJ drag her mother away as she gives yet another strangled shout.
Not wanting to watch another person try to hurt the girl I love, and not able to sit in her grief without baring the weight of my own long ago loss, I turn to the mostly empty church, seeking something to hold my attention before I sink any deeper and get stuck some place in my mind I can’t get out of.
A figure sneaks into the back of the chapel, and a flicker of rage overtakes my grief—his mock sympathy is not welcome here.
I elbow Walker, pointing at the interloper, and he throws his shoulders back, as ready to deal with this as I am. He whispers something to Emma, and she steps up to Clara, opening her arms. Clara dives into them, and they stumble back to our pew.
Walker and I stride down the aisle as Trips’ father takes in my shorter hair, the black washed out after way too many showers with dandruff shampoo and baking soda.
His eyes skirt over the added piercings on my face before he glances at Walker beside me, his hair a mess from worry.
“Such a sad day,” he says as we reach him, completing his perusal.
“You’re not welcome here,” I state.
“I would say I’m exactly where I should be. This is my daughter-in-law’s father, after all. What kind of family doesn’t support each other, especially during such a difficult time?”
Walker takes a step forward, but I clutch his wrist, not sure he’s in control.
He’s become more volatile. Honestly, we all have.
The urge to throw a punch aches in my bones where my urge to make others laugh usually dances.
“It looks like this difficult time is taking its toll on you as well,” Walker states, his dark eyes flashing as he inspects Trips’ father the same way he did us.
And as soon as he says it, I see it. Yellowed skin, yellow eyes, a suit a bit too baggy, movements made with careful precision, like every joint aches. I can’t help it. I laugh.
His eyes flash, but he doesn’t lash out. “This is not the time or place for your mirth, boy.”
I step closer, still chuckling. “You stopped by, why? To see what it might be like for you in a few weeks? Maybe you can choose your favorite bouquet and get a pre-order discount.”
His yellow skin grows red. “Weeks? Try many more months, you insolent boy. Better yet, never, if I can find that deviant who stole my daughter. He’s more than earned his consequence.”
Walker catches on before I do. “You want us to help you track down Bryce and Mattie? Us? Help you? After what you did to Clara? To Trips? To the man in the coffin on the steps?” His laughter joins mine, his sharp enough to cut.
We make enough of a commotion that Trips leaves RJ working with the pastor to get Clara’s mom out of the sanctuary, and strides down the aisle, icy eyes burning with fury.
Clara glances back, but must decide we can handle it, because she stays sandwiched between Emma and Summer in the pew.
“Father,” Trips says, as we create space between us for him to stand.
“Archie,” the man says, his eyes lighting up, like maybe he wasn’t sure Trips would speak to him again, like he’s glad to see his son.
“That’s not my name. Not anymore.”
His father waves off Trips’ correction. “Have you heard from your sister?” he asks instead, getting straight to the point.
“And if I had?”
“I’d ask you to go retrieve her and that rotten boy who has her.”
“You thought this was the right venue for that request?” The ice in Trips’ voice doesn’t match the tremor of restrained violence beside me.
“I knew you’d be here with your ‘team.’ And I knew you wouldn’t do anything without conferring with them. You and I both know Mattie needs to come home.”
Trips huffs out his own version of a caustic laugh. “You’re delusional if you think I would ever work with you again.”
“I have the means but not the manpower.”
“I know.” Trips’ eyes light with malicious joy. “You’ve lost your personal army. I bet every favor you called in came back cashed. You’re out of options.”
The man’s anger rises to the surface, hotter and more unhinged than Trips ever has been. “She’s your sister, Archibald.”
“Yes, she is. And I’ll find her myself, without your blood-stained fortune leaking fetid shit over everything it touches.”
He turns away from his father, and the man snaps, grabbing Trips by the arm.
The younger man—a larger, stronger, healthier mirror of his father’s aristocratic good looks—spins around, slipping his grasp.
Charging forward, he forces his father backwards until his suit coat bunches against the doors of the sanctuary.
Trips doesn’t touch him, but hovers over him, around him, his lips pulled back in a snarl.
“You will never touch me or mine again. That is a promise. And if I learned one thing from you, it’s how to follow through on my threats.
We are done here.” He waits a beat, then turns around, striding down the aisle without looking back.
“Not just now. Forever. Goodbye, Father.”
Walker guards Trips’ back, but I linger, waiting to see what this monster will do.
My palms itch with the need to hurt him like he hurt Clara, to twist him and break him the way he’s done to both of them.
But as I watch his careful, pained steps out of the sanctuary, his slight struggle with the heavy wood doors, the way he palms the keys from his pocket like they’re a foreign entity, I decide that a quiet death might be more fitting for a man who claims he fed his ego for the sake of his family instead of his own gain.
I hope he dies alone.