The Departed (23 page)

His bark of disbelieving laughter didn’t grate on her nerves. Dez was used to skeptics—honestly, they were easier to deal with. They didn’t expect anything from her.

“Look—I don’t care if you think it’s true, if maybe it is true—”

“Maybe?” She smirked. Rising from the couch, she hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and shook her head. “There’s either a
yes
or a
no
to it. There’s not a maybe. Either I had some sort of psychic talent that let me keep a girl from dying a grisly death in your charming little town or I didn’t.”

“Or, the third option, you’re involved,” Joshua said, his eyes cold now.

Behind her, she heard Taylor moving but when he would have gone past her, she caught his arm. “Don’t,” she said quietly. “Not worth it.”

“Oh, you’re so very wrong.” He brushed her hand aside. “Watch where you go with this, Moore. Watch very carefully.”

“Now, don’t get your boxers in a twist,” Joshua said, a bright, sharp smile on his face. “I never
said
she was involved. I said it was another option.”

“And I said watch where you go with this.” Taylor glanced at Dez, his eyes unreadable.

Damn it, she’d gone and turned this into a clusterfuck. Brooding, Dez stared at Joshua. What in the hell was she supposed to do now? Why had she blurted that out? Was she hoping he’d feel some pressing need to open up to her and then show her the kid’s room and…and…what?

Blood roared in her ears. She needed to get up to that kid’s room, damn it. Her heart pounded. Cold crept in, snaking around her.

Shit
—

Abruptly, she realized just
why
she was cold. The front door of the house was open. Wide open. Turning her head, she found herself staring into Brendan Moore’s wide, angry eyes. He looked at her, looked at his dad, then looked at Taylor. Then, just like that, he took off running, his feet pounding on the steps.

“What the hell…” Joshua muttered.

“WHAT the fuck is this shit?” Brendan jerked his mattress up and tore down the zipper. It had been a bitch to put that thing on but he’d wanted a secure place to put his shit, and this was secure. Wasn’t like Jacqueline was ever going to come in and flip his mattress or anything, right? The maid, all she did was change his sheets and text her boyfriend.

He shoved his hand in and jerked out the journal, ignoring the other stuff. The condoms, the weed, all of that, that was small shit. The journal, though, it could cause problems.

Hearing the footsteps, he felt something cold twist in his gut—
fear
—

No. He wasn’t fucking scared. He was just tired of people fucking with him, tired of people fucking things up
for
him, and he was tired of that crazy bitch…

“Brendan.” His dad knocked on the door.

“What?” He looked down at the journal, glanced at his bathroom. Needed to get in there, burn the thing. Best chance. Yeah. Starting toward his desk, he jerked open a drawer and grabbed the lighter in there.

“Open the door, son. Need to talk to you.”

“Don’t want to. Need to be alone.”

“Brendan…” The doorknob rattled.

Brendan smirked. Like he wouldn’t have fucking locked it.

Outside he heard voices—raised, irritated.
Fine, yeah, argue with my dad while I—

Turning, he froze.

Dez Lincoln stood in the door of the bathroom. She rocked back on her heels as he gaped at her, a faint smile on her lips. “Hey, Brendan.” She glanced back at the bathroom shared by his bedroom and the guest bedroom, then back at him. “Nice house. I would have killed to have my own bathroom as a kid.”

“What are you doing in here?” Sweat slicked his palms. Clutching his journal, he stared at her. Outside in the hallway, he could hear his dad, still arguing with Jones.

He’d thought Jones was the problem. In the beginning, he’d thought that cool-eyed bastard would be the problem. But it had been this bitch screwing things up, bit by bit. Being at the resort. Showing up at the hospital with Tiffany. Being here
now
.

She sauntered farther into his room. With that smug smile still on her face, she glanced down. “Oh, hey, you keep a journal? I always thought about doing it. But I’m lazy. What kind of stuff you write about?”

“What are you doing in my room?” he snarled.

“Easy, kid.” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You should chill out a little.” And she came closer…closer.

SO damn angry. Unlike his father, she got a better read on him. It wasn’t so much psychic skill that was needed, though. It was his face—he showed too much. Every thought, every action, they all showed on his features. An open book, she mused. And the closer she got, the more tense he got.

One hand closed into a fist.

Out in the hall, the men had gotten silent. She took another step, closer…closer…

He was fast, she had to give him that. Damn fast, especially for a wiry, mouthy little punk. He moved like a snake, striking out and attempting to deck her. She managed to squawk out a surprised scream as she dodged it—she’d seen it coming a mile away. He choreographed his moves as clear as day and she wasn’t about to get hit, not until she had to, anyway.

He snarled and tried again. From the corner of her eye, she saw Taylor and the kid’s dad bursting into the room and this time, she didn’t move out of the way. His fist caught her in the gut and the air exploded out of her, even though she bent some, right before the impact, lessening the blow to some extent.

Joshua bellowed out the boy’s name in shock. “Damn it, Brendan, have you lost your mind?”

Taylor didn’t bother with words. He just caught the boy’s fist before he could try another—not that Dez planned on letting him
land
another one. Brendan snarled and growled, sounding more like a rabid animal than a person. Taylor ignored that. In a matter of seconds, he had the kid’s hands pinned behind him, while Brendan’s face was pressed against the wall.

He wasn’t hurt and Taylor wouldn’t hurt him, but the kid sure as hell was pissed.

And scared now, because in the scuffle, he’d dropped the very thing he’d tried to protect—just as Dez had hoped. The journal lay open on the floor. And that wasn’t the only thing. Apparently he’d done more than write in the journal. It held drawings on loose paper, now spilled out. No wonder he’d been so determined to keep it from her. Swallowing, she knelt down, one hand reaching out to touch the image of a familiar downcast face.

But she stopped, her fingers hovering just an inch away. Slowly, she curled her hand into a fist and pulled back. With her heart slamming away inside her chest, she looked up and stared at Brendan. Still struggling to catch her breath, she said hoarsely, “That’s Ivy.”

With his face pressed up against the wall, he panted out, “Fuck you, bitch.”

Dez just stared at him. Fuck. This…this wasn’t how she’d wanted this to happen. She’d just needed to know if the damn journal was
here
, not have the fucking evidence spread out in front of her.
Damn it
—

She’d screwed around the wrong way and now they were fucked. Royally. Even if they weren’t officially connected, any evidence here would be tainted. She went to rise and saw Joshua. He was crouched on the floor, staring at the spread of pictures there. Staring at them in unconcealed horror.

As though he’d sensed her gaze, he looked up.

His voice was agonized as he rasped, “Is this why you were here? Did you know?”

Shit. What did it matter now?

“Yeah. I knew.” She stared at him, hating herself for screwing this up, for ripping his heart out.

An anguished scream left him and he slammed his fist into the ground. Then he surged to his feet, his face pale, his eyes dark with fury. “Damn you,” he snarled.

For a moment, she thought he was speaking to her.

But then she saw that he was talking to the kid.

Taylor let him go.

Brendan turned to face his dad, all big eyes and sadness. “Dad, what…what are you talking about?”

Joshua swooped down, grabbing one of the pictures. “This, damn it. I’m talking about this—what the fuck is this?”

“It’s that girl.” Brendan shrugged. “I thought she was pretty and I wanted a picture of her.”

“Don’t fucking
lie
to me,” he snarled. “What the fuck is this?”

He grabbed the journal and that was when Brendan snapped—all but transformed, his handsome face going ugly with hate. “Give me that,” he growled, lunging forward. Taylor stopped him.

Dez almost wished he hadn’t as Joshua flipped through it. “Oh, God…oh, God…”

He looked at his son, shaking his head. “How…Tristan…you…”

Then he closed his eyes, going to his knees.

“Hey…” Dez, her heart a cold, miserable knot in her chest, moved toward him.

In the edge of her vision, she saw Brendan. Saw him spin, grab something—a guitar, it looked like an electric guitar. Taylor intercepted, coming between the father and the son before Brendan could bring the guitar down over his father’s head. Dez heard Taylor grunt, watched as the instrument connected solidly with his forearm. The sickening, wet crack was terribly familiar—the sound of a bone breaking was a sound she’d heard before, a sound she never wanted to hear again.

She bit back her cry and circled around as Brendan eased back, watching Taylor with a taunting smile. “Stupid fuck,” he jeered. “How you going to handle me with a broken arm?”

Dez got in front of him, keeping one hand behind her, hoping Taylor’s instincts were as good as they’d always been. They were. A second later, she felt the familiar weight of his gun. She slid the safety off before she brought it out from behind her—never show your weapon unless you’re prepared to use it. She didn’t want to shoot this boy, but she would.

“He doesn’t have to worry about handling you, kid,” Dez said quietly.

His eyes went wide at the sight of the gun.

She smiled at him sadly. “I can handle you just fine. Put the guitar down, Brendan. Put it down. Nobody else has to get hurt.”

He swung it back and forth, shaking his head. “You think I’m fucking
stupid
? You want to arrest my ass, take me to juvie or something.”

Oh, Brendan—you wouldn’t end up there after what you’ve done,
she thought sadly. Assuming the locals could make the charges stick, and that would be dicey. She just didn’t know. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she nudged the journal with her foot. “Arrest you? Man, I’m not an official agent. I can’t arrest you. And this? Hell, this shit is compromised now.” She shrugged and grimaced—looking pissed off and worried wasn’t at all hard. She wanted him to feel comfortable enough to put that guitar down, but she didn’t see it happening.

She had a bad, bad feeling in her gut. Very bad. Damn it, she’d screwed this up. All to hell and back.

“Come on. Put it down.”

He just laughed, backing his way out of the room, keeping his back close to the wall and his eyes on them.

They couldn’t let him leave—not like this. No, the locals might not be able to arrest him for
this
, but Taylor could damn well have him arrested for assault, and that would buy them time for something—
anything
.

If he left, though, he was going to hurt somebody else. She could see it in his eyes, could all but feel it.

Apparently Brendan’s dad had the same feeling. Or at least the same desire not to see the kid leave. Joshua, finally able to pick himself up, got to his feet. With fury and heartbreak glinting in his eyes, he glared at his son. “You’re not leaving this house, Brendan. Don’t even try.”

Brendan sneered at him. “And how the hell you going to stop me? Fucking pussy.”

“Enough,” Joshua snapped. He took one step toward the boy and then blanched as Brendan grabbed something from the top of the desk near him. It glinted silver.

Dez braced herself when she saw the knife. It wasn’t the kind that would be balanced for throwing, she knew. But luck wasn’t running on their side today. “Put it down or I’m shooting,” she warned.

“No!” Joshua reached out a hand.

“Pussy.” Brendan gave the man a look of complete disgust, complete loathing. He threw the guitar down, shifted the knife to his right hand as he moved toward the door. “If I stab you with this, you still going to stand there and whimper and cry about her shooting me?”

“You’re my son, damn it,” Joshua said, his voice hoarse. Broken.

“So the fuck what?” He’d cleared the door and shot a quick glance toward the stairs.

“You’re my son. I love you.” Joshua shook his head. “And I should have seen how messed up you are. But if you leave this house, don’t think that’s the end of it. I’ll have every cop I can find looking for you. You’ll be arrested. I’ll have you in the nearest—”

“Fuck you!” Brendan screamed. He threw the knife, but either luck smiled on them or Brendan’s rage had cost him. The knife went wide, landing by the window. The boy didn’t wait to see. He took off running.

Dez took off after him—

There are times when every second takes a lifetime. Even as she burst through the door, she knew, deep in her gut, it was too late. Too late for what, she didn’t know.

Those seconds slowed to a crawl—Dez heard a scream. A woman’s? Then there was a crash. Then another scream—Brendan’s—and it carried through the house, ending all too abruptly.

With her heart in her throat, she ran for the stairs. There was a gaping hole in the middle of the railing along the landing, the wood ragged and broken. She didn’t even remember getting down the steps, just that she’d been up on the second floor, then she was kneeling by Brendan’s side.

He was breathing—barely.

“Oh, God…”