“Samuel,” Maxwell calls after me. I hear his door open and close as he follow me out. “Samuel, wait. Just listen to me for a minute.”
His suit jacket flaps open as he runs around the front of the car. He reaches for me, his large hand landing on my shoulder, but I don’t hear what he says as I swing back around, my hand closed into a large fist. I slam it into his face, and he stumbles back under the force of it.
“Yeah, I’m not a little kid anymore, Dad!” I shout, smashing both my hands on to his chest as I push him backwards. He stares at me wide-eyed as I push him again. “I’m not a little kid and I’m not in a jail cell and I’m not cuffed. You and those cunts you called nannies can’t fucking bully me anymore! Grandmother can’t bully or belittle me anymore!” I swing out and hit him again, catching him in the temple. He calls out in pain and stumbles again, but I can’t stop myself.
I rear back and hit him again, and again, and again, my knuckles burning with every punch. I ignore every cry of pain, and I push and punch and push and punch until he falls. I drop to my knees, straddling him as I grab his shirt in my hand and lift him.
My father, the great Maxwell Gunner, stares up at me, his face bloody and bruised, tears streaming from his eyes as I rear back with my fist again.
“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry,” he cries.
“Stop calling me son!” I bellow. “I’m not your son!”
“You are. You’re my son, and I’m sorry I did this to you. I get it, I know it was my fault. All mine, Samuel. You’re not to blame. Not you or Sabella. This is all my fault,” he cries.
“It is.” I let go of his shirt as I stagger backwards. “It is your fault. All of this is your fucking fault.” And then I start to cry. Tears like I haven’t cried since the night I heard him say we’d killed our mom pour from me, the weight of blame lifting from my shoulders. “It is your fault,” I sob.
Maxwell climbs to his knees and reaches for me. I push back at him. I fucking hate him. “Get away from me. I hate you. I fucking hate you!”
“I know, son. I know,” he soothes, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me to him. “I know you do, and I deserve it all. Every last drop of your hate and anger, I see that now.”
All of my energy is gone. Every muscle sucked dry. I don’t have the energy to push him away anymore. I hate him, but I’m broken. I’ve been filled with anger for so long that now that I’m finally feeling something else it’s too much.
My father holds me like a small child for the first time in his life, and for the first time in my life, I find myself clinging to him, desperate for his love.
We separate at the sound of my dad’s cell phone ringing and run to his car to answer it.
“Hello!” he barks, wiping away the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, yes.” He goes silent, his gaze flicking to me. My heart sinks as dread blooms. He hangs up and leans against the car like it won’t hold his weight up.
“What is it?” I ask, the words barely making it out of my mouth.
“They want us to go home and wait there.”
“What?”
“They want us to wait at home until they know more.”
My eyes narrow. “And you said no, right?” My teeth grit together, my jaw feeling like glass that might smash at any moment. “Right, Maxwell?” I bite out. “Because we need to get there and look for her.”
Shaking his head, he climbs into the car, and I slam my hand down on the hood, not giving a shit if I damage it. I throw open the passenger door.
“Why?” I yell.
His eyes look empty of life, devoid of anything other than grief. It scares me half to death seeing that look on his face. “Because it’s a crime scene now. No one is allowed in. They’re sending an officer to talk to us. They said the car is a crime scene.”
His words echo through my mind. Not words at all, but noises, sounds that bounce off the hollow inside my head and reflect back out of me.
“What does that even mean?”
“They’ve found more blood.”
“She’s not dead,” I say, my legs too weak to hold me up. I stagger and sit down in the car and close my eyes so I don’t throw up. I feel the car move and my door shut, and then we’re moving again. He’s trying to say she’s dead I know he is.
She’s not fucking dead.
I’d know if she were.
Who would fucking hurt her?
