Chapter Fifteen #2
I swing onto Widowmaker, and the stupid dinosaur keychain Amelia bought me taps against the metal near my ignition.
I stare at it for one second too long.
Dinosaur. Cheap grocery store crap. My throat gets tight.
“You good?” Oaks asks.
“I swear to God, if one more person asks me that today, I’m starting with them.”
“So no.”
I start Widowmaker.
The pipes roar hard enough to rattle the porch windows.
Through the glass, I see Amelia standing inside with Lottie beside her.
Her hand is pressed to her mouth. I look away. Then I ride.
Oaks and Wildcat follow in the club truck because somebody decided we needed to look less like a murder parade.
They fail. There is no version of Oaks and Wildcat in a truck behind me that looks like civic responsibility.
We hit the road toward Paradise, and I let Widowmaker stretch just enough to keep from vibrating out of my skin.
We stop at the farm supply store outside Paradise when Whiskey calls with a location.
“Courthouse. He has a meeting with someone in family services in twenty minutes.”
Family services.
The words land exactly where Jeremy wants them.
My hands flex.
Oaks steps closer. “Derby.”
“He’s already moving on custody.”
“We don’t know that,” Whiskey says through the phone.
“He’s at family services after sending a toy to August. We know.”
Another pause.
Then Whiskey, quieter. “Twila is already on the road. She heard the same thing through her side.”
“Good.”
“Not good. She said if you touch him, she arrests you.”
I smile.
“Then she better drive fast.”
I hang up.
Oaks curses. “Prez said no moving without his call.”
“Call him.”
“Derby.”
“Call him from the truck.”
I’m on Widowmaker before he can grab me.
The ride to the county building ain’t long.
It feels shorter because rage eats distance.
By the time I pull in, the sky has turned darker, clouds low and greenish at the edges.
The building is beige brick and glass, the kind of place where cruelty puts on khakis and signs forms. A flag snaps out front.
People go in and out carrying folders, diaper bags, coffee cups, and all the quiet tragedies government buildings collect before lunch.
Jeremy Vale stands near the side entrance.
Clean suit. Neat hair. One hand in his pocket. Phone to his ear. When he sees me, he ends the call.
No fear.
That is his mistake.
He smiles.
That is his second.
I cut Widowmaker’s engine and get off slowly.
He looks past me like he’s waiting for someone. I look too, for Oaks or Wildcat. They’re not here yet.
Good.
“Derby,” Jeremy says, like we are men who have been introduced at a charity golf event. “I wondered how long it would take.”
“You sent a threat to a five-year-old.”
His smile tightens. “I sent my son a gift.”
“He’s scared of you.”
“I sent a dinosaur. If Amelia is frightened by kindness, that is part of the concern I came here to address.”
There it is. The court voice. The polished, reasonable bastard in his natural habitat.
I step closer. He doesn’t back up. He wants witnesses. Cameras. Bruises. Proof.
Some part of me knows that. Some part of me hears Amelia saying if I go to jail, he wins. Some part of me sees August’s face anyway.
How did he know I was here?
“You like scaring kids?” I ask.
“I like reminding my son he has a father.”
“You ain’t a father. A real one doesn’t beat his wife.”
His eyes go flat. “And you’re a criminal pretending my wife chose you.”
I smile.
Slow.
Ugly.
“She did choose me.”
That gets him.
Not a lot.
Enough.
The mask slips, and the thing underneath looks out.
“My wife is confused.”
“Your wife is free.”
“She isn’t your wife.”
“No,” I say. “She’s not.”
His smile returns, sharp now. “Then why are you here bleeding all over yourself because I sent my child a toy?”
Because I like him.
Because he asked if I was fake.
Because Amelia kissed me like choosing was new.
Because you put your hand inside my house.
I say none of that.
I step closer.
Jeremy lowers his voice. “You can have Amelia. She’s proved she’s nothing but low life trash. A whore. Just like I always suspected. Blood matters, you see. But she won’t keep my son from me. Because, you see, blood matters.”
The world narrows to a point. There is the trap. I see it. I know it. I step into it anyway. My fist hits his mouth before the last syllable finishes leaving it.
He goes down hard.
The sound satisfies something in me so deep I don’t want to name it.
People scream. Someone yells. A phone drops. Jeremy rolls to his side, spitting blood onto the concrete, eyes wide now because pain has finally made a believer out of him.
I grab his jacket and haul him up enough to hit him again.
“Derby!”
Oaks.
Too far.
Not enough.
I hit Jeremy in the ribs. Once. Twice. He folds, gasping. His polished shoes skid on the wet pavement. I pin him against the wall with one forearm across his throat.
“You send anything to that kid again,” I say, voice calm as church bells, “and they will identify you by dental records and blood.”
Jeremy’s bloody mouth curves.
Even now.
Even with fear in his eyes.
“You just proved me right.”
I hit him again.
Not in the face.
Stomach.
He retches.
Hands grab me from behind.
Oaks and Wildcat.
I throw an elbow. Catch somebody. Wildcat swears. Oaks locks one arm around my chest and yanks.
“Enough,” Oaks growls. “Brother, enough.”
“He wants the kid.”
“I know.”
“August is scared of him.”
“I know.”
“He called Amelia a whore.”
“I know.”
Jeremy slides down the wall, coughing blood and smiling like a man who knows the camera above the door saw enough.
Sirens cut through the air.
Of course.
Deputy Dix pulls in hard, cruiser tires spitting gravel and water. Twila is out before the car fully settles, one hand on her taser, the other near her gun, eyes taking in everything.
Jeremy on the ground.
Blood on my knuckles.
Oaks holding me back.
Wildcat wiping blood from his cheek where my elbow caught him.
Twila’s face goes tight.
Not surprised.
Disappointed, maybe.
That pisses me off worse.
“Derby,” she says.
“Deputy.”
Jeremy coughs. “He attacked me. I want charges.”
I lunge.
Oaks clamps down harder. “Don’t.”
Twila steps between me and Jeremy like she has a death wish and excellent boots.
“Hands behind your back,” she says.
I laugh once. “Deputy, if you wanted me in cuffs, you could’ve bought me dinner first.”
Her eyes don’t move from mine. “Keep talking, Derby. I’ll add stupid in public to the charges.”
Wildcat snorts.
Oaks sighs like I have personally aged him ten years.
Twila takes my wrist.
For one second, every instinct in me rebels.
I don’t like cuffs.
I don’t like giving law my hands.
I don’t like Jeremy watching with blood on his teeth and victory in his eyes.
Then I think of Amelia.
If you go to jail, he wins.
Too late, darlin’.
I turn and put my hands behind my back.
Twila cuffs me clean and tight.
“Assault?” I ask.
“For starters.”
“You gonna read me my rights?”
“You gonna listen?”
“Probably not.”
She leans closer as she checks the cuffs. Her voice drops low enough only I hear. “You stupid son of a bitch.”
I smile without humor. “He sent a toy to August.”
Her face doesn’t soften.
But something in her eyes does.
“I know.”
“Then you know why I hit him.”
“I know why.” She straightens. “That doesn’t mean you get to do it in front of county cameras while he’s meeting family services.”
Jeremy coughs from the wall. “I want him charged.”
Twila turns on him so fast he shuts up.
“You want medical attention,” she says.
“I want…”
“You want medical attention,” she repeats, and there is enough law in her voice to remind him she ain’t his. “Then you can give a statement after someone checks whether your teeth are still unionized.”
Despite myself, I grin.
Oaks mutters, “Don’t encourage him.”
Twila opens the back of the cruiser. “In.”
I look at Jeremy one last time.
He is bloody. Bent. Still breathing.
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
But his smile is gone now, and fear has finally found somewhere to sit on his face.
Good.
I get into the back of the cruiser.
The door shuts.
Metal and glass between me and the world.
I hate the smallness of it immediately.
Twila stands outside talking to Oaks and Wildcat. Jeremy is helped up by someone from the building, playing wounded citizen now. The county cameras stare down from the beige wall, and I know exactly what they caught.
Derby, patched King, beating concerned father Jeremy Vale outside family services.
Hell of a story.
Jeremy will love telling it.
My knuckles throb.
Blood dries between my fingers.
I flex them once, slow.
Still not enough.
My phone is in my pocket, buzzing against my thigh. Probably Legend. Probably Whiskey. Maybe Amelia when she hears.
I close my eyes.
The image that comes ain’t Jeremy’s bloody mouth.
It’s Amelia in my kitchen saying, If you go to jail, he wins.
Then August asking if I fake like him too.
No, kid. That part ain’t fake.
Twila gets behind the wheel. Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“You happy now?” she asks.
I look out the window at Jeremy Vale wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
“No.”
The cruiser pulls away from the curb.
My hands are cuffed behind me.
Blood on my knuckles.
Rage still clean in my chest.
Jeremy Vale is breathing.
So no, I’m not happy.
Not even close.