There was no excuse for that kind of neglect.
Annette Baxter elbowed her way into his thoughts. He evicted the image of those long legs and that wicked smile. As soon as he had this situation under control he would come back to that problem. She was going to learn very quickly how he’d earned his reputation as the Avenger.
For just one moment last night he had been certain he’d heard fear in her voice. He’d definitely seen it in her eyes. But like everything else about her, the display had likely been a performance designed to mislead him. To tug at his protective instincts. She shouldn’t waste her time.
Carson had no sympathy where Annette Baxter was concerned.
What he did have was a raging desire to take her down.
After prowling through the fridge and cabinets to find something edible, Carson got the meds into Max followed by food. The man was skin and bones. He didn’t eat nearly often enough. Something else Carson should have been taking care of.
Instead of fucking Annette Baxter.
Carson stayed with his uncle while the drugs did their work. Soon Max was speaking more slowly and rationally and insisting that he needed to sleep. Time and a few more doses would be necessary to get him back on track.
“You don’t need to worry, Car,” Max offered as Carson helped him into bed and adjusted the covers about him.
Carson settled on the edge of the lumpy mattress. “Why would I be worried?” Who knew where the old man’s random thoughts came from? Carson understood from experience that it was best to give him grace and just play along.
“She knew you didn’t mean it.”
Tension rippled along Carson’s frame. “What’re you talking about, Max?”
“Livvy loved you. And she knew you loved her. No matter what happened, she always knew.”
The tension turned to a dull ache, one Carson knew all too well. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He did. Teenagers said stupid things sometimes; their parents forgave them. But Carson had taken it to the next level ... and he hadn’t gotten the chance to make it right.
He had to live with that.
Max drifted off to sleep. Carson sat there watching the old man, the last time he’d spoken to his mother playing over and over in his head.
Carson, you don’t understand.
I understand perfectly. I won’t let you do this.
Dr. Olivia Tanner had tried to reason with her son, but Carson had refused to listen.
I hate you! Do you hear me, Mother? I hate you!
The fifteen-year-old patient in his mother’s office at the time had witnessed the entire scene. Had provided a statement describing Carson’s menacing demeanor and the threatening words he’d shouted at his mother—the renowned child psychologist who couldn’t control her own son.
For the first twenty-four hours after the murders even the cops on the case had considered Carson guilty. Since he’d made another stupid decision and gotten piss-ass drunk after the fight with his mother, he’d even considered the sickening theory himself. An alcohol-induced blackout. Those unaccounted-for hours had taunted him ever since.
Had he simply passed out in a drunken stupor ... or had he done what Max often did, gone off the deep end with no recallable memory of the event?
The boy could be like his uncle ... that man’s crazy, you know.
Stop.Carson closed his eyes.Don’t go back there.That part of his life was over. He opened his eyes and stood. He’d achieved every damned thing he’d set out to accomplish—everything his parents had wanted for him. The law enforcement community respected him. He hadn’t failed ... except that once.
Until recently, he amended.
But it wouldn’t happen again.
Restless and damned determined to get his mind off that painful past, Carson checked the house. There were only three rooms. The living, dining, and kitchen areas were all crammed into a twelve-by-fifteen space. There was also a small bedroom where Carson had slept for two years, and a box of a bathroom with nothing but a wall-mounted sink, toilet, and cubicle shower.
Home sweet home.
None of Carson’s friends had been allowed to come here. Everyone had known Maxwell West was crazy. Less than half a mile away, the Tanner mansion had sat empty and collecting dust; still did. Max refused to live there. Not that Carson had ever wanted to, either. He hadn’t set foot in the place in years. And even then only on those occasions when he needed to refresh his memory of the crime scene.
