Dad’s eyes widen at the impact, and his sockets start turning red. His face blotches, and there’s sweat coating his forehead and neck with how much he’s straining himself.
“I wanna count all the things you’ve done wrong today, but I won’t,” I say. “And you know why that is?” I twist the blade’s handle, and he wheezes against the pain I know I’m causing him. “Because I know for a fact that it’ll only make you gloat, even in these final fucking moments of your life.”
There’s utter silence in the foyer, and it’s clear that all eyes are on me right now.
Dad wheezes again, and I see that there’s drool dripping out of his mouth and onto his chin.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I slowly pull the blade out of him, and he tries to stumble away from me. I don’t let him, though, and kick him in the balls, which makes him fall onto the chaise lounge behind him.
I step between his spread-out legs, then bend so that our faces are aligned. He seems bewildered and out of it, and his eyes are frantically moving around, but remain unfocused. His breathing has slowed down considerably, and I know I’ve hit him close to his heart.
“Look at me,” I hiss, and when he doesn’t, I slap him and yank his chin forward. “Fucking look at me, you asshole. I want you to keep that fading eyesight on me. I want you to know thatI’mthe one who brought you to your goddamn knees; who put a full stop on Chase Adler’s ever-going chapter.” I push the blade in through the same spot, and smirk when he convulses beneath me. His legs thrash, his mouth opens and closes as he tries to say something, and then finally, mercifully, he stops his protests and goes fully immobile.
Justice should never be expected – either from life, or from the people around you. It’s something that needs to betaken, be it by force or by practicality. But the thing is: people like my father don’t understand rationality. They’re so used to getting everything they wish for, that they forget about the inevitable consequences of their actions. They need to be brought down to Earth every once in a while, or perhaps be dragged six feet under.
I scan him from top to bottom, then wipe the switchblade on his t-shirt. “For Mave, and for Jayce. And for letting me be treated like shit by my mother for over twodecades.” I straighten and step away from his body. “May you rest in fuckingpieces, Dad,” I say, then turn my back on him.
68.
Jayce is dead. And as much as it hurts to think about it, to let the words play in my head, it won’t change the fact that I lost my brother today. The man who understood me better than anyone ever has; the man who protected me so fiercely that in the end, it cost him his life.
A life that was far more valuable than mine.
I’m not someone who dwells on things – or people, for that matter. But Jayce – him and I were bonded. He was an extension of my darkness; my morals. He balanced me out, and I knew that if I needed his advice, or his presence, all I’d have to do is look to the side, and he’d be there to guide me, to stop me if I were about to mess shit up. Not anymore, though, and the pain of that truth is enough to crumple me on the inside. It has petrified me to the point where everything feels constricted, and I don’t know how to get rid of the fucking weight of it. Of the guilt and the loss. It’s too much; too strong.
A series of gunshots are fired just outside the estate, which startle me out of my trance.
“What the fuck was that?” Varsha asks.
Alex doesn’t say anything; he’s lost in his own head while he holds Jayce to his chest.
“Let’s hope it’s Solo,” I say, then touch the scar on my right cheek, only to flinch at its tenderness. It’s not bleeding as much now, but it burns like a motherfucker.
I move my hand away from my face and turn around, and notice as one of the guards – Maverick had called him Ashton, I believe – pulls Cignette to the side when a bullet somehow ends up hitting the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He says something to her, then motions for the others to follow him outside. There’s yelling, more gunshots, and then, I hear a voice saying, “Maverick is dead. He died protecting the people in this estate. Shooting those who have come to their aid goes against everything he taught us, and everything he stood for. I want you guys to stand down, and if anyone wants to disobey me, they can come forward and let it be known.”
Solo is here, then.
The guard’s words ignite strong murmuring from those in the garden. I can’t hear, or understand, what they’re saying, so I instead look at Cignette again.
She’s sitting on the floor now, next to Maverick’s body. Her hands, and most of her dress, are covered in blood – both Chase and Maverick’s. There’s color on her cheeks, as if she’s flushed or something, and her hair is a sweaty mess around her. She’s staring at her hands, and is running the pad of her thumb over my switchblade’s handle. I don’t remember when or how she took it off me, but then again, I’d been completely out of it when Chase had attacked Jayce, so I wouldn’t have known anyway.
The commotion from outside stops. Silence takes over, but it’s only brief. I hear footsteps marching up the estate’s stairs, and then…
“Dor?”
Varsha lets go of a breath, but it quickly turns into a sob. Alex doesn’t so much as react; he remains as is.
Solo all but runs towards me, with Eddie right behind him. There’s a guy with them who I haven’t seen before, but with the crisp blue suit he’s wearing, along with the earpiece on him, and the pistol he’s holding, he looks like he could be a security personnel or something.
“Dor?” Solo kneels before me and places a hand on my shoulder. “What the fuck happened here?”
Eddie glances around the foyer with wide eyes and a too-shocked face. “Holyshit,” he whispers, then pulls his phone out of his leather jacket before putting it to his ear.
“Jayce is dead,” I tell Solo, then swallow and look at him. “Chase and Maverick are dead, too.”
His face crumples. “Dorran…”
“My brother is dead, Solo,” I say out loud for the first time, and it sucks. It fuckinghurts. It makes me wanna heave, but it also makes me wanna scream until I can’t.
