Ivan eventually advanced to the sledgehammer as his tool of choice. With their father distracted in the garage, he’d admire itwith a silent threat. One day, he’d crush Emory’s skull. Ivan would leave then, and Emory was always slow on the uptake after.
“Get outta your head, son,” his dad would say, “and don’t worry about your brother. That boy is broken in ways even God can’t fix.”
True enough, worrying hadn’t solved anything, and God never fixed Ivan.
By seven-thirty, Emory had showered and dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt with his long hair tied back. By eight-thirty, he got to work in an unused office on the third floor. For shame it wasn’t with his hands. He’d be happier if it was. Turn a wrench and free his mind.
At a half-past eleven, Jack’s noisy trinity sounded in the hall—boots stomping, wallet chain rattling, the whistling of some goddamn tune sure to stick in Emory’s head. Jack cantered in sporting a devilish grin and flopped into the chair across the desk.
“Mornin,’ sexy,” he said and picked his nails with a pocketknife. “Rough night?”
“Just about.”
Three, maybe four hours of fitful sleep. Another fight had in the hall, though, that one had felt different. On the ropes, he had nothing left for Amelia and thought she might’ve been pleased.
She wasn’t. Amelia wanted him contrite, not defeated, but his pride couldn’t bear to bend the knee. Something had shifted in him and in her too. It burned him up that he couldn’t tell what, so that rough night bled into an early morning. If he didn’t sleep, too fucking bad. The world kept spinning.
“I heard Liam lighting you up last night. Everything alright?”
Emory shrugged and snapped shut his laptop’s lid.
“It’s fine. What’s done is done. Damon is?—”
“In pieces.”
Jack’s perpetual amusement vanished and left behind a fearsome visage. He was just as dangerous and brutal as the other men but charmed with humor they couldn’t quite manage. He leaned in close. An errant strand of hair fell in his eyes and grazed the crooked bridge of his nose.
“About the motel clerk. We can make that problem disappear.”
Jack pitched cold-blooded murder with the sleazy grease of a car salesman and a toothy smile to match.
Emory shook his head and asked, “For what? What did he see? Amelia? Okay, so he saw Amelia, places her with the Burrows kid.”
“He can place Damon there too. That will track to us.”
“Damon had no loyalty. He was in a lot of pockets, not just ours.”
Jack folded the knife and acquiesced with lifted hands. His instincts had accuracy, though, enough that Emory picked up the thread to see where it ended.
“What are you concerned about?” he asked.
“We don’t know what the clerk knows. Could be nothing, could be everything. We get rid of him, we get rid of an unknown.”
“True, but the more you pick at a wound, the more it refuses to heal. Might be best to leave this one alone.”
Jack mulled it over with a nod, though clearly unconvinced. At an impasse, Emory offered no promises, just consideration.
“Let’s find out more about the hospital the kid’s at. If it’d be an easy hit, okay; a production, I don’t have the appetite.”
“Fair enough. For today, I already briefed the men. Ten are with us. The rest will stay behind with Liam.”
“Good man. Thank you.”
“You know I love you,” Jack said with a wink and hopped to his feet.
“So you say.”
Emory grabbed his gun and tucked it into his waist band. Down the hall, he and Jack walked in step.
