Brett sneers, “Go ahead. Like they’d side with aBennett.”
With the music gone, the room is quiet enough that I can hear the mutters. Everyone knows that my dad was a dirty cop. But not many people are brave enough to mention it to my face. Not that Brett’s brave. More bitter.
“Wanna find out?”
They might resent my dad, but there are officers—like Mason—who don’t blame me for his bad decisions. Who are fair and by the book and would take my claims seriously.
Brett’s arrogance falters a little. He doesn’t want to find out, I’m guessing. He might get me in trouble, but he’ll wind up in some too.
He focuses his attention behind me. “That’s why you lost it at Lucky’s, huh? You got yourself a rich girl? She doesn’t care your dad is a thief? And a wife beater?”
There’s a collective inhale around me. Not many people talk about the crimes my father was convicted of. No one has ever mentioned the ones he got away with to my face.
“Get the fuck out of here, Nichols,” Gus snaps.
It’s the angriest I’ve ever heard him. Beneath the fury—the shame—I experience a flash of appreciation. I meant everything I said earlier—I’m damn fortunate to call him my best friend.
“This party sucks anyway,” Brett comments, finally turning to leave. His buddy follows.
A smaller hand slips into mine, another curving around my forearm. I glance at Wren beside me, searching her face for some reaction to the revelation about my dad’s domestic abuse.
She squeezes my palm once. “Normally, I’m a pacifist, but hereallydeserved that punch.”
I crack a small, grateful smile, squeezing her hand back before tugging her left. I’ve never been here before, but there must be a back door somewhere. I don’t want to risk running into Brett out front. He’s probably lingering, pissed he didn’t get his way.
I find a sliding door that connects to a small patio and lead Wren outside. There’s a firepit in the backyard that a few guys are sittingaround, smoking weed, but no one else in sight.
I rub my face with the palm of my free hand. Exhale. “I should have told you myself. I—fuck, I hate talking about it. More than anything else.”
Skylar’s death was a tragic accident. My dad embezzling money? Awful, but most of it was “donations”—bribes that wealthy residents paid to erase incidents. Him dipping into those funds wasn’t hurting anyone directly.
Finding out that my hero hurt my mom? That he had been hurting her for years? I’m so furious and sad every time I think about it that it feels like the mixture of emotions stifles me. That I’ll never escape their weight.
“I didn’twantyou to know,” I admit. “Didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
“Did he ever hurt you?”
“No. I knew he had a temper; he’d always had a temper. It was mostly yelling. Breaking dishes sometimes. But he never hit me.”
“I’m so sorry, Sawyer.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I glance down, scuffing my sneaker against the pavers. “It was happening in the same house for years, and I had no fucking clue. That part kills me. That I could have stopped it, somehow, if I’d?—”
“Hey.” I watch Wren’s feet step closer. “Look at me.”
I blow out a shaky breath, then lift my chin to meet her gaze.
“Remember when you told me it wasn’t my fault, what Third did? Nothing your dad did was anything you had control of. No kid assumes anyone is capable of that, especially their parent. We never have to talk about it again, but don’t ever blame yourself for not knowing.” Wren rises on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around me, whispering, “You’renot an asshole, Sawyer Bennett. Not even kind of.”
I could say it now. It would be so easy to let those three short words slip out. But I don’t want my dad to play any part in that important moment.
So, I just tighten my hold on her, trying to wordlessly convey how I’m feeling.
When we separate, she asks, “What time is it?”
I pull my phone out to check. “Twelve forty-five.”
She says nothing, just stares at the screen. And it takes me a beat to realize why.
