Page 164 of Twisted Knight

His fucking father is the chief of police.

I jump to the solicitor’s site but have a feeling I already know what’s there. Why no charges have been pressed. Everyone in that goddamn country club protects their own.

The current circuit solicitor is Clifford Daybell.

How convenient.

How utterly fucking convenient.

No doubt Clifford Daybell is of some relation to Florence Daybell-Williams.

They rigged this whole fucking thing. If I didn’t live here, if I didn’t work at the Westmore Country Club and see shit like this every day, I would think it’s not possible.

But I do live here.

I do work there.

And I know the truth. Chadwick Williams murdered my brother—and Rhett Rothschild was in the car—and they’re getting off because they have friends in high places who fix shit for them.

Just like they do at the club.

Clank. Click. Clank.

I sink back on the couch and close my eyes. I let the tears stream down. I let the grief I’ve been wading in swallow me whole.

Mason was somebody. A good kid with a bright future. My little brother with a goofy laugh. A somebody who mattered.

But apparently the only people who matter are those with money. Are those in high places. Are those who can fix “mistakes.”

Nobody cares about the other people. About us. The people who are merely trying to get by. The ones trying to better themselves despite being dealt a shit hand in life. Those of us who are one bad decision away from being them.

Even our lives don’t matter.

There is motion in the doorway to my right and I open my eyes to see my mom standing there. Her once proud shoulders now sag. Her usually styled brown hair has her roots showing and streaks of silver in it. Her gentle smile is lost.

“Anything?” she asks just above that whisper I’ve grown so used to in the last month.

I stare at her and know the truth will only make her spiral further. “No. Nothing.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I hate myself for it immediately.

I’ll tell her the truth soon. I will. But not now.

I need you too, Mom. I’ve lost him and now I’m losing you too.

She stares at me with hollow eyes and nods—“’Kay”—before shuffling back into the bedroom and returning to her fetal position of rejecting reality.

I stare at the ceiling and prepare for another night of trying to forget.

I’ve got to get us out of here.

Every day we leave the house we see where he died. Every day we hear the kids playing and we expect him to come in the front door.

Every day we lose him all over again.

And even worse, every time I go to my job that I so desperately need—that I can’t lose—I come face-to-face with Mason’s killers.

FIFTY-THREE

Rowan