Old man Wallace was making a fuss about the people talking to his underage son, but Max stayed focused on Terence. The kid returned Max’s gaze, his face distrustful. Max’s heart almost tore in half. He’d been in Terence’s shoes, hoping things would change but never believing it’d happen. In that kind of place, you’d be an idiot to trust anyone.
“Terence, nothing is going to change unless you help it change,” Max murmured. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened. Did you fall down, or were you pushed?”
Terence stared at him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nina gazing almost hopefully at her brother. Terence opened his mouth, and for a moment, Max thought the boy would tell them everything. That for once, the ending would be different.
But before Terence could say anything, his mother snapped her head around to look at him, her face full of pure terror as she shook her head. Just like that, the slight glimpse of hope Max had seen building in the boy’s eyes disappeared, snuffed out like a candle.
“I tripped and fell, just like Dad said,” Terence told Max in a voice so flat and emotionless it was almost robotic.
“Your father didn’t touch you?” Max prompted.
The kid shook his head, refusing to look at Max.
Biting back a curse, Max reached out and gently pressed two fingers against the boy’s stomach, right below the sternum. Terence winced in pain, involuntarily pulling back a little. Max moved his hand away even as the boy tried to recover and act like nothing had happened. Blows to the stomach hurt like hell, but they rarely ever left a mark. Wallace was a smart, twisted, sadistic son of a bitch. Just like Max’s father had been.
Max glanced at the kids’ mother. She’d seen her son get beaten by the man who was supposed to love and protect him. Maybe he could plead his case with her. But there was nothing in the woman’s eyes to make him think there was any reason to bother. The woman was gazing at her husband the same way Max’s mother had looked at his father. Eileen Wallace was thinking her husband would finally realize how much he’d hurt their children and everything would be better.
But it never worked out that way. The violence would stop for a time. Maybe a few days, maybe even a few weeks. But at some point, it always started up again.
Sighing, Max stood. On the other side of the room, Wallace gave him a smug smile. The urge to rip the man a new asshole surged up inside Max, bringing fangs and claws with it. He probably would have gone at the bastard right then, but once again, Brooks stepped in front of Max. Taking Max by the arm, Brooks led him outside, blocking both Alvarez’s and Wallace’s view as he did.
Out on the front steps, Max inhaled deeply, fighting for control over his inner wolf and tamping down the desire to kill that piece of shit Wallace regardless of how stupid it might be. Zane came out a few moments later.
“Alvarez will make sure the kid gets medical attention,” Zane said. “He’s in there right now laying into that wanker, promising to come back tomorrow to check the kid’s stiches himself.”
“For all the good it will do the kid,” Max muttered. “His hand will heal, but what about the next time, when his father puts his head through a wall?”
Zane didn’t say anything. There was only so much a cop could do in situations like this. SWAT cops could do even less. This wasn’t their patrol area, and it wasn’t like they’d be coming out here again anytime soon on official duty, unless it was to deal with another DV call that went even worse than this one.
“Go talk to the neighbor who called 9-1-1,” Brooks suggested. “See if he can tell you anything.”
Max nodded. If he stayed on the steps any longer, he was going to end up walking into the house and ripping out Wallace’s throat.
He and Zane found the old man sitting on his porch with the patrolman, filling out paperwork.
“This is Ernest Miller,” the officer said. “He’s the one who keeps calling us out here. He’s also the only one who cares enough to fill out the reports.”
Ernest was a crusty-looking guy who sported shorts and a T-shirt, chilly November weather be damned. He had faded naval tattoos covering both forearms and an irritated look on his face.
“Those poor kids okay in there?” Ernest asked, his voice coming out in a gravelly, two-pack-a-day gargle. “Or did that bastard finally kill one of them?”
“They’re all alive…barely,” Max said. “You hear them fighting in there a lot?”
Ernest snorted. “Three or four times a week. Normally I’m not one to put my nose into another man’s business, but I can’t stand by as that man beats up on his wife and children. What kind of bastard does that and still calls himself a man?” The guy turned and spit over the side of the porch, as if just talking about his neighbor made him sick. “You going to be able to finally arrest that piece of garbage?”
Max shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”
Ernest cursed. “If I were ten years younger, I’d take that jackass behind the woodshed and beat him within an inch of his life.”
Max couldn’t argue with that. Next door, Brooks and Diego came out of the Wallace house. Reaching into his pocket, Max pulled out a business card, handing it to Ernest. He’d never had a reason to give anyone his card before, but this seemed like a good use of one.
“My personal cell phone number is on there,” he said. “Call me if you hear anything from the Wallace house. Day or night.”
Ernest assured Max he would. “Not that I imagine I’ll have to wait too long. You might have put the fear of God into that bastard for a little while, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the screaming and hollering start up again before long.”
Max knew the man was right, which made getting back in their SWAT vehicle to leave damn hard. But not nearly as tough as when he looked back and saw Terence gazing out the front window at them, his face a mask of anguish.
