But then there are the invisible layers: the stink of burnt plastic, the powdery residue from whatever industrial extinguisher Knox found in the barn, the way even the light looks dirtier, like it’s had to wade through three weeks of cigarette ash before landing on your skin.
Knox had insisted we get to the shop by eight. “First day of your new life, bro,” he’d said, which was either an attempt at pep talk or just his way of not letting me sleep through the depression.
Newt came along too, because apparently the kid had nothing better to do than watch two grown men argue about the proper use of an orbital sander. He hovered in the doorway, hands jammed in his hoodie, chewing on a piece of black licorice that looked like it had gone through the wash at least twice.
I started with the easy stuff: sweep up the broken glass, stack the ruined furniture in a corner, pull the masking tape off the walls and see if the paint underneath would even hold a nail anymore. Every time I turned around, I found something else fucked up—an ink bottle exploded behind the sink, the main neon sign outside cracked in half, the shop safe—empty, thank you very much—left open in a gesture of pure, pointless cruelty. It was like someone had made a list of everything I loved and then run it through a wood-chipper.
But I kept at it. We all did. Newt, when he realized there was no actual tattooing to gawk at, decided to inventory my old flash books and “salvage what’s not bled on, dude.”
Knox took the brunt of the heavy lifting, dragging out the burnt counter and cussing at the stain it left on the floor. He had a way of making even the most domestic violence look like a military op—every time I started to wallow, he barked an order and I found myself doing it, no questions asked.
The bell over the door had survived. Every time it jingled, I flinched. There was no reason to; the only people left in town who hated me enough to break in now were probably already in holding or bleeding from their own stupidity.
I was elbow-deep in a bin of melted tattoo tubes when my phone buzzed. Not a text. A call. Which was rare enough these days to feel like an act of God.
I wiped my hands on a rag and thumbed the screen. The display said “Sheriff Hardesty,” which was both a relief and a new set of nerves.
I grinned, but only for Knox’s benefit. “Hey, babe,” I said, loud enough for the whole shop to hear.
Knox shot me a look, but didn’t comment. Newt giggled like someone had tickled his spleen.
On the other end, Floyd said, “Hey, yourself. You, uh—busy?”
I looked around. “Just doing my best impression of a FEMA disaster zone. What’s up?”
He paused. I could hear the murmur of voices in the background. “Just checking in,” he said, but the words were slow, deliberate, like he was testing them for meaning.
“That’s so sweet,” I said, playing it up. “Want me to order us a pizza and we can Netflix and ignore the community outrage together?”
Another pause. “Actually… I was calling about dinner,” Floyd said. “I got a little tied up with a thing over at your parents’ place. Didn’t want you to worry if I was late.”
I blinked. Knox caught it, because he never missed anything. “You’re at the homestead?” I said.
“Yeah,” Floyd said. “It’s kind of a big deal. Your mom made that bread you like, the sourdough. She said to tell you the whole family’s here. We’ll be sitting down in about an hour.”
I squinted, running the math in my head. My parents hated unannounced guests, and they didn’t do midweek family dinners. Hell, half the brothers were allergic to being in the same zip code at the same time. “You sure you’re at the right place?” I said, and tried to laugh, but it came out off.
“I’m looking at your mom’s prize roses right now,” he said, voice a little louder, like he wanted someone on his end to hear every word. “Knox is already here, and I’m bringing the salad.”
I glanced over at Knox, who was currently breaking down the back of the ruined tattoo chair with a crowbar.
I played along. “That’s weird,” I said. “Knox is right here with me. Maybe he’s got a twin?”
There was a long silence, then Floyd said, “Yeah. Maybe.” In the background, a door slammed. A woman’s voice—sharp, familiar—said something I couldn’t make out, then a second, younger voice chimed in. Neither sounded like my mom.
I got up and drifted to the front window, which looked straight across Main to the sheriff’s office. The blinds in Floyd’s second-floor office were open, which was unusual for him. I could see his silhouette at the desk, and behind him, two figures: one short and moving like she owned the place, one taller, ganglier, slouched like a teenager playing dead.
A spike of adrenaline hit, cold and perfect. “You want me to swing by with anything?” I asked, keeping my tone level. “I’ve got a fresh batch of the good stuff. If you’re into that.”
“Not tonight,” Floyd said. “Just… stick close to your brother, okay?”
I stared at the glass, caught my own reflection. I looked like I’d been through a war, which wasn’t far off. “Sure thing, boss. You call if you need me.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I will. Love you.”
He hung up before I could say it back.
I turned to Knox, who was already watching me like a crow on roadkill. “Something’s not right,” I said.
