“Let me go,” I growl, twisting in their grip. “I’m not done with him.”
“Yes, you are,” Knox says, his expression hard. “Assaulting a police officer is a serious charge, Liam.”
“He started it,” I protest, my eyes locked on Arnold, who’s being helped to his feet by another deputy.
“He’s under arrest, too,” Knox says. “But you just made things a lot worse for yourself.”
I’m dragged toward the door, my eyes searching for Millie. I find her huddled in a corner, my mother’s arms wrapped around her. There’s a gash on her forehead, blood matting her hair. Her eyes are wide with fear and confusion.
Our eyes meet, and I mouth the words, “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. Aunt Dee is talking to one of the deputies, her gestures sharp and emphatic. Jessica hovers nearby, her phone still clutched in her hand.
The deputies push me out the door and into the back of a police car. The door slams shut with a finality that makes my stomach drop. I watch through the window as Arnold is led to another car, his hands cuffed behind his back. He turns, catches my eye, and smirks.
Fuck.
Punching a sheriff. My own father is a deputy sheriff. There’s a good chance I’m spending the night in prison.
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. The adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a growing sense of dread. All the progress I’ve made, all the work I’ve done to build a life for myself and my mother, ruined in a matter of minutes.
And Millie. What will she think of me now? The man who lost control, who let his past dictate his present, who turned his mother’s café into a boxing ring.
I open my eyes as the car pulls away from the curb. Through the window, I see Millie emerge from the café, my mother still holding her.
She looks so small, so fragile, and I’ve failed to protect her. Just like I failed to protect my mother all those years ago.
The cycle of abuse. It’s real, and it’s vicious, and it just keeps repeating, no matter how hard you try to break it.
As we turn the corner, leaving the café behind, I can’t help but wonder if this is it. If this is the moment when everything falls apart for good.
Every bump in the road sends a jolt through my already aching body. My ribs throb where Arnold’s fist connected, my knuckles are split and raw, and my wrist screams in protest beneath the flimsy brace. But none of that compares to the sick feeling churning in my gut.
How the fuck can he be back?
Why the hell did he have to come back?
My life is officially a train wreck, and I’m the one driving it off the tracks.
We arrive at the station, a squat, brick building that’s seen better days. The deputy, a young guy with a fresh face and a name tag that reads J. COOPER, pulls me from the car, his grip firm but not rough. He marches me through the front doors, the fluorescent lights overhead humming a tune that sets my teeth on edge.
“Booking’s this way,” he says, his tone flat and professional.
He leads me to a counter, where he takes my personal belongings—wallet, keys, phone—and places them in a plastic bag. I watch, my hands cuffed in front of me, a detached observer in my own downfall.
He takes my fingerprints, the ink cold and sticky against my skin, then snaps a mugshot. I can only imagine what I look like—hair a mess, a bruise already forming on my jaw, my eyes burning with a fury I can’t contain.
“Wait here,” Cooper says, leading me to a small, windowless room.
It’s painted a sickly shade of gray, with a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs on either side. The door clicks shut behind me, the sound echoing in the silence. I’m alone withmy anger, a beast that’s been pacing inside me since I first saw Arnold’s smug face in our café.
I start to pace, the confines of the room too small to contain my restless energy. Every step sends a fresh wave of pain through my body, but I don’t care. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional turmoil raging inside me.
I see Millie’s face, pale and scared, the blood matting her hair. I see my mother’s tears, the fear in her eyes that I haven’t seen since I was a kid. I see Arnold’s smirk, the cruel twist of his lips that’s haunted my dreams for years.
And then there’s Knox. The look on his face when I punched him. Not just anger, but something else. Disappointment? Pity? I don’t know which is worse.
The door opens and Knox walks in, holding an ice pack to his jaw. The bruise is already starting to form, an ugly purple blotch on his skin. A fresh wave of guilt washes over me, but I push it down, replacing it with a surge of defiance.
