“You broke her nose and her leg,” I countered with hate.
“Things got out of hand!” he cried. “I wanted to scare her a little. Then she fell out of the window, and the dog came after me. I … I—”
I stood quickly. Two steps and I was in front of him. Towering.
He looked up at me with wide eyes, shaking. Like some abused victim. Like he was the one wronged by life.
“I didn’t do it,” he begged. “Please. Please help me. I’m dying. I didn’t do it. The knife … it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t me.”
Slowly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the picture of the knife again. And looked at it. Really looked at it. The paper trembled between my fingers as something clicked.
That knife in the picture.
It was our garage knife.
The one we used to cut boxes open on recycling day. The one that sat in the drawer by the workbench. That unique chipin its handle from when Dad dropped it while cutting up boxes after Christmas left no doubt.
My breath grew shallow.
Then another memory hit.
In the elevator, Dr. Rothchild said he remembered seeing a patient named Alderwyn. If I did the math, it lined up. It would have been right before the murder happened.
Before everything.
Which would mean she knew. My mom knew about the cancer. She had known all along she was going to die.
I shook my head and put the picture back into my pocket.
If there was a moment to feel hate for my mother, this should’ve been it. But, instead, a tear slid down my cheek. Hot and burning. Not for me. For my mom.
All that endless pain she carried. It must have been so scary to get the cancer diagnosis, knowing my dad would destroy us kids after she was gone. With his drinking. And weak selfishness. He would fight my grandma over custody even if he didn’t want us. Just out of spite. Unless someone like Amanda took care of him. Contained him. Mothered him like he was a big child. So his kids had a chance to grow up somewhat normally.
And Zach was a problem in all this, as he was trying to take Amanda away. Wouldn’t even let her leave. Threatened to destroy her if she divorced him to be with us.
Who knew where we all would be right now if it hadn’t been for Zach’s death? If Amanda hadn’t been able to marry my dad and hold everything together after my mom died and my grandma had a stroke, nothing would be as it is right now. And thinking about all this, all I could feel for my mom was love. The boundless love of a son for his mother. A woman who had sacrificed her eternal soul to save her kids. And her useless husband.
Sure, Zach didn’t deserve to die. But he was an abusive piece of shit who would have destroyed us all if Amanda chose us over him. And blaming Myers for his murder …
My gaze dropped to the filthy man bleeding in front of me.
This man had broken my grandma’s nose and leg. Broke into an elderly woman’s house with a knife. Did he really think I’d believe he went there to chat? He also hurt the prostitutes. Raped them without paying. Broke one of their noses as well. The list of violent charges on his record was a mile long, including the rape of a young college student in a grocery store parking lot. And he possessed child pornography.
So, no.
My mom did nothing wrong when it came to this man.
And yet.
As I looked down at him, begging for his life, a different question crept in.
Was I a monster if I let him bleed out here? Would it haunt me for the rest of my life?
I leaned over him.
“Take off your sweater,” I told him.
He obeyed instantly. It took effort. He winced, teeth grinding, hands shaking as he peeled the blood-soaked sweater over his head. It dropped to the floor next to him.
