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  I shrugged my shoulders, still seething silently that he didn’t give her that note. “It would explain her behavior towards me.”

  She sat for a minute, carefully considering the possibilities. “Let me use my detective skills a bit and see if I can find something out. In the meantime,”—she paused as she reached over to her little side table and moved a few magazines that set atop what looked to be a folder of some sort—"I need to ask a favor of you.”

  “Okay.”

  “As we both know, I’m 95 years old.”

  “95 years young,” I gently corrected her.

  “I think the sun’s already set on that one, sugar.” She put her tired hand on my cheek, patting it slightly. “You’re a charmer just like my Grey.”

  “I believe he’s got me beat.” Grey had always been the one to make everyone fawn at his words, the smooth-talking, good-looking bastard that he was. You couldn’t dislike him because he was one of the most genuine people on the planet.

  “He is one of my very favorite people in the world, but you all are precious in your own ways. Which brings me to why I needed you to come by this evening—other than to let me look at that handsome face, of course.” She winked and took the manila folder from the side table, resting it in her lap, one of her hands laying gently across it. “I’m entrusting this task to you for when I’m gone.”

  I eyed the folder carefully. “What is it?”

  “When I leave this world, I will need you to handle some things in my stead. Can you do this for me?”

  “Anything you want…but I don’t want to think about you not being here.”

  She opened up the folder. “Me neither, sugar, but the sun sets on us all eventually.” She detailed her exact plan of what she wanted to happen when she passed away. What would happen to the house, to the various buildings she owned in town, and countless other things that would need tending to when she was no longer here. She handed me a stack of papers that listed her wishes and told me that everything had been taken care of and her lawyer had drawn up all the necessary paperwork. A world without Elsie Beaumont would be a sad place indeed, yet I couldn’t believe that I of all people was chosen to carry out her wishes.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “My son will be well-provided for, and I want to do the same for all my grandchildren.”

  “But I’m not…” I took in all the generosity that she was bestowing on the Kasen family and me.

  “You may not be by blood, but you are by choice. And that’s even more special.” She leaned forward to press her lips to my forehead. “Family is what you make it, honey. You know that better than anyone.”

  I shook my head in agreement knowing what she meant, especially when the family I claimed as my own rescued me from Hell on Earth, my angel, the one who brought me from the hot ashes of my doom.

  Chapter Twelve

  Deacon

  I savored the taste of peanut butter as it melted over each taste bud. Heaven. This was absolute heaven. My empty stomach growled, interrupting my brief moment of joy—a reminder that I had to be careful with how much I took, even though I could have easily eaten the rest of the jar. Two days with no food was torture, but it was a peaceful two days because he wasn’t here.

  My best friend Aidan lived next door, and I could always count on being fed until I couldn’t fit another morsel in my 11-year-old body, but his dad had taken him and his brothers on a camping trip for the weekend. Mrs. Kasen would have given me anything I wanted—even her famous chicken and noodles—but I was too embarrassed to ask, especially with knowing Charlotte would see me begging. My pride couldn’t handle seeing the way she looks at me like she knows every deep dark secret I try so hard to hide, so even though my stomach would disagree, staying hidden here was the best choice. At least, I think it is.

  I reveled in one more spoonful, careful to make sure the track marks I left with the spoon in the smooth brown mixture matched the previous ones he had left behind last time. I knew that eating this was a huge risk, but it was either this, the remaining half of a moldy bread loaf, or the gallon of milk that was three weeks out of date. Peanut butter it was. I was so tired of having to watch my every move, every word because I would be punished if it wasn’t what Dad wanted to see or hear.

  Tomorrow, I would have school, and the new breakfast program guaranteed I’d be able to get something to eat. I just had to get through the next 14 hours, and everything would be okay. As I looked longingly over at the house next door and cherished my last bite, I tried to think back to the last time my dad looked at me with anything other than disappointment and anger in his dark brown eyes. I came up emptyhanded.

  Ever since my mom left three years ago, his treatment of me grew more and more severe. My mom hadn’t been the best, and she and Dad had had some big arguments, which usually ended with Mom in tears and Dad leaving the house for a day or two, but at least things were better while she was around. Now? I was the only target of my dad’s drunken rage.

  She had been gone six years, and every piece of her had been removed from this house except for me. I sometimes wondered if that was why he hated me so much—I had her blue eyes, jet black hair, and dimple on my left cheek, which only showed when I smiled. He hated to see me smile, so that was one thing I could keep locked away easily. The way I stumbled over my words and how my body was clumsy from unexpected, rapid growth spurts seemed to be his favorite reasons to pick at me nowadays, so I learned to be very quiet and still.

  Out of sight, out of mind, out of trouble. Usually.

  My only escape was at school and the Kasen home. The big white farmhouse with black shutters sat about 50 yards away from our kitchen window, a beacon of hope shining just barely out of reach from the Hell that was my home. I had looked out this window hundreds of times over the past six years, fantasizing about what it must be like to grow up there. To say I was jealous was an understatement. Mrs. Kasen gave out hugs, and generous helpings of food like it was her job. Mr. Kasen was always willing to show me new things, like how to cast a fishing rod and what type of tool you should use for different jobs around the house. I always tried to help them any way I could, to show them I appreciated all that they did for me, knowing they didn’t have to do any of it. If only I could have been born to a different set of parents. If only…

  My daydream was cut short by the aggressive jingling of keys. The scratching of metal as those keys tried to gain entry was my only warning that he was back. I had only a few moments before he would be coming through that door, ready to find anything to criticize me over, so I quickly screwed the lid on the jar and set it down on the counter while I tried to figure out what to do with the spoon.

  My options were slim. There was no time to wash it, and I couldn’t put it back in the drawer without him noticing the streaks of saliva and the smell of roasted peanuts on it. The sound of a key jamming into the lock jarred me from my conundrum and I sprinted towards my bedroom, spoon in hand. I barely made it to my room and got the door closed before I heard the tell-tell creaking of the old front door ushering in my father’s presence. My ears pounded with a loud thumping, making hearing a near impossibility.

  I listened intently, trying to see if I could tell where he was, and what he was doing so I could get rid of the spoon before he found it in my hand. The ring of keys crashed against the wooden entryway table by the door, and the cursing that spewed from my father’s mouth combined with rubber squeaking across the linoleum floor told me he was taking off his steel-toed boots. I quietly tip-toed to my bed, heart in my throat, and decided the best option was to hide the spoon. The zipping noise of sleek metal gliding between the thread-bare mattress and worn-out box spring was louder than I had anticipated, and I thought for sure he would hear and come to investigate. After I made sure the metal handle wasn’t sticking out, I straighten up and listened for a sound—any sound—that would give me some warning.

  More cursing and rubber squeaking comforted my heart, an
d I threw back the covers to disguise my sin of disobedience. If he noticed the spoon was gone, he would hit me until I confessed what I had done, and then the real punishment would begin. Sleeping outside in the cold, making me watch him eat dinner while I sat with an empty plate. My father was a master at doling out punishments and always seemed to know what would break me most. And though I would never be able to prove it, I had a sinking feeling that he had had something to do with my loyal dog Duke’s death three years ago.

  “Deacon!” His booming voice echoed down the hallway, startling me from my thoughts and causing me to back up against my mattress.

  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew three things by the sound of his voice: 1) he was drunk and pissed, 2) it was my fault—as always, and 3) whatever was going on, I would be punished.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  I swallowed and replied, “In he-here.”

  “Kitchen. Right. Fucking. Now!”

  I grimaced, his voice making me flinch. Exhaling a heavy breath, I gathered the courage to face my father. My footsteps, swift and quiet, caused the old floorboards to creak under my recently increased weight. I winced at the noise and the low growl I heard coming from the kitchen. Forget monsters under the bed—my worst nightmare was the man I called Dad.

  I rounded the corner and looked up at the man who had raised me. He had a 5-inch advantage over me, but it might as well have been fifty. The man was a giant in his own right, making up for lack of height with the bulky brawniness of his frame. He reeked of booze and menace, with pink smudges painting his gray shirt collar. His light brown hair was messy, no doubt the aftermath of a two-day bender of alcohol and women. At least this time, he had chosen to keep his latest “friend” away from what should have been my mother’s home. He stood there, staring a hole through me with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

  “You got something you wanna tell me?”

  I looked around, searching for a sign or a dead giveaway of what he was talking about; no dice. “No, sir.”

  “Then, what the hell is this?” He stepped to the side slightly, revealing my mistake.

  I dared to look at his outstretched hand, tightly clutched around the jar of peanut butter idly sitting on top of the counter—the same jar I had forgotten to put back because I worried that he would see the dirty spoon. My heart began to beat erratically. I should have just taken my chances with the moldy bread.

  Before I could speak, his empty hand found the collar of my shirt and twisted it tightly, drawing me closer to him. “Answer me, dammit! Why was this out?”

  I tried to keep my voice steady, leveling out the apparent fear, but my stutter got the best of me. “I-I was hungry.” Strike one. His grip twisted the collar around my neck tighter. I willed the tears back, but I couldn’t stop one from escaping. Strike two.

  “How much of my food did you eat? The food I pay for?”

  My brain overloaded with possible answers, but I couldn’t pull out one fast enough. “One sp-spoon-fu-ful.” The pause before my answer betrayed me, as did the lie that slipped out so quickly. My eyes grew wide from shock, fear brewing beneath my skin.

  He jerked his fist, still full of my shirt, causing me to lurch another half-step forward. “Tell the truth, you little bastard!” It never failed; one drop of blood in the water and the sharks would always descend.

  I gulped back the knot in my throat and worked up the courage to sign my own death warrant. “Two. I ha-had two.”

  “So, you admit you lied.”

  My voice was so quiet that I barely heard the sound leave my mouth. “Ye-yes.”

  Strike three.

  The slap across my face chased that last syllable, and I stood there, ashamed that I had once again made my father so angry. The metallic taste of blood and the sting in my upper lip told me I’d have a split lip to deal with later.

  He grabbed my chin and gripped it hard. I flinched in pain, and the smile on his face told me it didn’t escape his notice. He drew his face to mine, whiskey and floral perfume overwhelming my nostrils, malice gleaming from those dark eyes. “You know I fucking hate liars.” Those whispered words slid over his drunken breath, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He only gets this quiet when it’s going to be bad—really bad.

  “Take off your shirt. Now.” He pushed me back with his balled-up fist, releasing my shirt and reaching for his belt buckle. The clang of metal signaled my doom, so rather than try to beg for mercy and sentence myself to a crueler punishment, I stood there silently, condemned my own stupid choices.

  I peeled off my blue shirt and tossed it to the floor out of harm’s way. No sense in ruining my favorite shirt, which was the only shirt that still fit me right after the latest growth spurt. My eyes found the floor, and I didn’t dare look at him anymore. I had sealed my fate.

  “Hands on the sink.” The slide of his leather belt sliced through the tension in the room, adding to the impending doom of what was to follow. “Don’t you—don’t you dare move them.” I could tell by the swaying of his feet he was too drunk to stand, but Wes Devereaux never backed down from a challenge. I turned around to comply with my father’s demand, knowing hesitation would only make things worse. “I’ll teach you not to lie or steal from me.”

  “I-I’m sor-r-ry, Dad.” It was the only thing I could think to say because it was the truth. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong moment to let the truth leave my tongue. My hands met the cool laminate countertop and sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Don’t call me Dad, you stupid, stuttering son of a whore!” Every slurred word was delivered with scalpel precision.

  I gripped the edge of the sink with white knuckles and a chest full of shrapnel from a broken heart. The beating was inevitable, but with those last biting words, he confirmed what I had suspected for a long time: not only did my father not love me, he no longer saw me as his son. I looked out the window and wished with all my heart I was in that big white farmhouse with black shutters, far away from what my life had become. I pursed my lips together and fought back a sob, letting my tears silently slip down my cheeks and fall into the metal bowl. I caught a slight reflection of my father behind me as he raised his arm and drew back the belt.

  With one last glance at my refuge, I closed my eyes, braced myself for the impending pain, and vowed I would never eat peanut butter again.

  I woke up in a cold sweat, much like any other time I relived that last day with my dad. I looked at the room, taking in the walls that weren’t stained with neglect and the bedroom that wasn’t my hiding place growing up. I had hidden the marks and the bruises from the Kasens and everyone else as best I could while the abuse increased. Nevertheless, the emotional scars I carried from those three years were still fresh. I had escaped my tormentor, but now and then, I would relive an incident, and it would throw my world in an F-5 tornado, with no eye in which to rest.

  I hadn’t had a full dream like this about it in a long time, and I think my mind working overtime before I fell asleep had something to do with it. I turned the conversation I had with Elsie over and over in my mind before nodding off to sleep, taking in all the things we discussed: her final wishes, Mason more than likely being a ginormous asshole for whatever reason, and Charlotte not getting my letter. It made perfect sense now that I thought about it: why she never called, why she hated me so much. She thought I just wanted to use her and that I had rejected her because she wasn’t good enough, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  I got up and walked to the bathroom, Jesse pouting as I walked by his kennel, no doubt sensing my mind was in turmoil, that sixth sense that all dogs seem to have. I splashed water on my face and felt the cold droplets trickle down my torso. I wiped my eyes clear and took in my reflection—a man torn apart by failure and missed chances. Resting my hands on the porcelain sink was a little too reminiscent of my dream, so I pulled them back and scrubbed them down my face. I looked in the mirror at my right shoulder, noticing one of the physica
l reminders of my dream crawling over the top in a thin pink line that had healed back over time. I turned slightly and took in the marks I could see all down my back, sitting on top of the muscular form I had honed over the years—remnants that proved some nightmares are real and some monsters leave their calling cards behind.

  The mirror cracked when my fist met it, leaving veins of brokenness spiderwebbed across the smooth surface. I looked at my now cut hand, a small gash that was dripping blood all over the white sink. Fuck. I took the first aid kit I had stashed in the sink cabinet and bandaged up my hand. That would mean wearing an ACE bandage under my work glove to hide the gash and get Grey on my ass for why my hand was cut. My first thought was I needed a drink but decided against it since it would mean a trip down the road to the next town because Silverton was a dry city and because it was too much work to undo nearly two years of sobriety. I cleaned up the bathroom and went to the kitchen to get a cold glass of water and grabbed a bottle of aspirin as well.

  I sat the bottle on the ground to pat Jesse with my non-bandaged hand. He kept whimpering, so I caved and let him sleep on the bed with me. He curled up at the foot of the bed; his face turned towards mine. Swallowing the pills, I pulled back the covers and laid back, hoping a dreamless sleep would find me, but another nightmare found me instead, this one of my own doing—one I wish would have only been a bad dream…

  As I lay there with my eyes still closed, I decided I had never had a more peaceful night of sleep in my life. Having her lying beside me through the night was the sleeping pill I so desperately needed. Not even this hangover could bring down the euphoria I felt with her beside me. No nightmares, no waking up in a panic, no demons to fight; just sweet Charlotte in my arms, looking like an angel as she slept soundly. If only this were how it could be every night.