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That thought hits me out of nowhere as I drive to Autumn Downs the next morning. Somehow, despite stealing cars for a living, breaking into people’s homes, stealing, and buying drugs by myself in Huntington Park and Cudahy from fourteen to sixteen, I’ve never been in a fistfight. I guess I have some luck after all.
But today, I’m going to talk to Julian Kensington and get him to admit what the hell he did. And I might have to fight him. I have no idea how that’s going to go. On one hand, I’m bigger than he is. I’m six-foot-one and one hundred eighty pounds, and I’m in good shape even though I never played sports or worked out or anything. I’m also twenty-five years younger than him, so that’s got to count in my favor.
On the other hand, I don’t know anything about him. For all I know, he could secretly be a black belt or train with ex-Navy SEALs. Or he could have a bodyguard somewhere in the house that I haven’t seen yet. For all I know, I’m about to get my ass kicked or even beaten to death. Even if that doesn’t happen, the best-case scenario for me is I end up in jail for assault. Detective Ramirez gets a search warrant for my house and slaps a possession charge on me. She digs up my juvenile history and finds the judge who warned me about slipping up and next thing you know, I’m doing ten years in Wasco.
I don’t care. Someone needs to stand up for Lila.
I pick up the van at seven. Ahmed isn’t there, and the person behind the counter couldn’t give two shits that I’m an hour and a half early. If all goes well, I’ll still be able to get work done today.
I laugh at myself for that. I'm about to confront a murderer and possibly get myself killed or put away, and I'm worried about losing my job. I think it's time to admit I don't give a shit about that anymore.
I reach the Kensington house, and suddenly it becomes very easy to admit I don’t give a shit anymore. I get out of the van and stalk to the house, the diary in my hand. My blood boils, and while I don’t consider myself a violent person by any means, I find myself hoping that Julian tries something.
I knock on the door, and the sound is so loud that it causes me to flinch. God, I’m angry.
The door opens and Julian looks at me, a frown on his face. “Hello? Can I help you?”
He’s relaxed. God, he’s so fucking relaxed. He’s standing there without a care in the world, like nothing’s wrong, and he didn’t kill his own daughter a few days ago.
“You can help Lila,” I say.
He frowns. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no excuse for you, you piece of shit.”
His frown deepens. “You need to leave my property, young man.”
I hold up the diary and say, "Really? Are you sure about that? I think we should talk first, Julian."
He pales slightly, and I feel a rush of triumph seeing that. He knows. He knows I have proof of his crimes in my hand.
“Is that Lila’s diary? Where did you get that? Did you break into my house?”
“Damned right I did. Pulled this out of your dead daughter’s bedroom while you and the coke fiend were out partying it up.”
He blinks and takes a step backward. “How dare you trespass on my property.”
“How dare you kill your daughter.”
He flinches and pales further. “You are overstepping your boundaries, young man. Leave my house now, or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them. Tell them about Pacific Oil. Tell them about the money you transferred to accounts in Barbados and St. Kitts. Tell them about how you got rid of Derek when he stopped playing ball.”
He starts to tremble and takes another step backwards. “You are out of line.”
“Fuck you! Admit it! You killed her, you fucking coward!”
“Nate!”
This time it’s my turn to flinch. That was Vivian. What’s she doing here?
“Nathan!” she hisses, grabbing my arm and pulling me off the porch.
“You’d better stay the fuck away from us!” Julian calls. “And give my daughter’s diary back!”
“Fuck you! I’m taking this—”
Before I can finish that sentence, Vivian snatches the diary out of my hands. She stalks to Julian and hands the diary to him. “I’ll take care of this, Julian.”
