“These are my sisters, Nina and Natasha,” Terence said, motioning with his chin at the two girls.
The older girl, Nina, locked gazes with Max for a second, her eyes a mix of hope and curiosity. Unlike her mother, she hadn’t completely given up on the world yet and retained some hope that maybe something would happen one day to stop all this.
“How did you hurt yourself, Terence?” Max asked in a low voice.
“I told you already,” Wallace bellowed. “The stupid kid fell over his own feet. Tell them, Eileen,” he added, looking at his wife.
Max caught Terence’s eyes and held them. “Is that what happened? Did you fall down? Or did someone push you?”
Wallace was making a fuss about the cops 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 would 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 his own mother had looked at his father. Eileen Wallace was thinking her husband would finally realize how much he’d hurt their children and then 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 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 of Max 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 stitches 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 while that man beats up 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.”
