“I read about what happened,” Holt said, his tone lacking any of the fury it held a moment ago. “What she did to Rex that night. Is that what you see?”
Rafe knew he should simply agree. Tell him that he was traumatized by that horrific scene. It would likely be a sufficient explanation and not untrue.
“If only that were the worst of it,” he muttered, unable to look Holt in the eye.
“Your brother said it only happened one time,” Holt continued. “That’s what he told the police. Was that not true?”
Rafe shrugged. “Probably.”
“Look at me.”
He didn’t want to, but he forced himself to lift his gaze.
“Rex wasn’t the only one she hurt, was he?”
He held Holt’s stare and shook his head. He didn’t mean to respond, but for some goddamn reason, this man made him feel safe.
“Talk to me. Please,” Holt whispered.
At the very least, he figured Holt needed to know why Rafe was too fucked up to let this go too far.
***
For the first time since he metRafe all those years ago, Holt saw real torment on the man’s face.
All this time, he’d thought Rafe was rebellious because people accused him of being a cold-blooded murderer. He’d figured the thick skin was a direct result of those accusations, and Rafe’s stand-offish behavior had been born from that.
Based on what Rafe alluded to a moment ago, Holt feared there was much more to the story. A darkness that Rafe had kept to himself all these years. Something that went deeper than the physical abuse they’d suffered at the hands of their father.
“Tell me what happened, Rafe,” Holt urged. “Tell me what happened after your mother died.”
“After she was murdered, you mean,” Rafe snapped. “Because she didn’t die from fallin’ down the stairs.”
Holt swallowed, hoping Rafe would continue if he didn’t interrupt.
“That bastard said she’d been drinkin’, and she fell down the stairs,” Rafe hissed. “Mama didn’t drink. Not like he said she did. He killed her.”
“You saw it happen?”
Rafe shook his head. “No. If I had, I would’ve killed him that night. Rex and I were sleepin’, but they were always fightin’. Nothin’ we did was good enough for him. Not Mama. Not me or Rafe. I don’t think Billy Don loved anyone but himself.”
“Did you see your mother’s body?” Holt had seen a dead body or two and knew firsthand that it wasn’t the same as seeing one on television. He’d signed on to work with the Biloxi PD when he was researching his second novel and thought that a stint with the homicide division might give him insight into the mind of a killer. He’d tried to look at it from a clinical standpoint, but he hadn’t been able to do it. After seeing one dead body after another, he realized it wasn’t something he could do. He had a new admiration for the men and women who fought to get justice for the dead after that, and he decided to leave the difficult tasks to them.
“Yeah.”
“It’s understandable that seeing her like that would make it hard to go back in that house.”
Rafe’s eyes lifted, meeting his. “You think that’s what it is?” Rafe snorted. “If only.”
Holt decided not to push him, but he wasn’t walking away, either. He wanted Rafe to open up, but only if he were willing. Holt couldn’t drag the horror out of him, and honestly, he didn’t know if he wanted to. But he did want to help Rafe. Somehow. Someway.
“He’d been fuckin’ her before Mama died,” Rafe finally said. “Jolene Snyder. Town meth-head. Only twenty-two. More than half Billy Don’s age. He had no fuckin’ business with her.”
Holt held his tongue, praying Rafe would keep going.
“The first time she came to the house was the day of the funeral. She stayed there while we went and laid Mama to rest. When we returned, Billy Don sent us to our rooms, tellin’ us not to come out until he said.” Rafe paced across the floor. “I didn’t care. I didn’t want to be around him anyway. But thenshecame to my room. Introduced herself.”
Holt noticed Rafe’s tone had gone cold, as though he was reciting the events he’d read about.
