Page 104 of Wicked Brutal

Dad wakes me at five in the morning by sitting on the edge of my bed. That is how I know something is wrong.

Not the time. Five isn’t especially offensive in this house — Dad is usually awake before the sun, Mom considers sleep an inconvenience when she’s working on something, and I’ve spent enough years playing lacrosse that early mornings don’t qualify as a human rights violation anymore. It’s the fact that Walter Harrington is sitting silently in my bedroom.

I open my eyes and stare at the dark outline of him for half a second before reaching for my phone. No missed calls. No new messages from Ally. Her last one came a little after midnight, telling me Tobias was asleep, Roman hadn’t asked any questions when they got home from the lake, and she was going to bed. I’d made her promise to eat first. She’d called me insufferable, sent me a picture of an empty cereal bowl as proof, then told me our kid was apparently trying to bankrupt her family through groceries before it was even born. Nothing since.

“What happened?”

Dad keeps his voice low. “Arthur called me about an hour ago.”

That gets me upright. “What happened?”

“He got a call from the federal prosecutor at four.”

Every bit of sleep disappears. “About Roman?”

“About the information Ally gave you.”

I shove the blanket off my legs. “What did they find?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Dad.”

“He didn’t tell me because Arthur didn’t get much over the phone either. There was enough overlap in what you gave him Friday that the federal team started pulling pieces from the Pennington and Anderson investigations. Something came back overnight.”

I scrub both hands over my face. Dad waits. He knows better than to tell me to calm down. Probably because he’s spent eighteen years raising me and would like to see nineteen.

“He wants everyone at his house at six. The five of you. Arthur, me, Callum, Gideon, Clifford, Theodore, and Thomas.”

I look at the time. 5:03. “Jesus Christ.”

“Exactly.”

I get out of bed and grab yesterday’s sweatpants from the chair. Dad still doesn’t move. “What?”

“Before we go downstairs, there’s something else.” Dad watches me pull a shirt over my head. “You told Arthur Friday that Tremblay wanted to see Ally today.” My stomach tightens.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because I know you.”

“Congratulations.”

“And I’m telling you now, before Arthur tells you in front of everyone else, that if Tremblay takes Ally somewhere today, you are not following them.”

I stare at him. “Did I say I was?”

“No.”

“Then we’re good.”

“We’re not.”

“Dad.”

“You’ve been awake for three minutes, and I can already see you planning it.”

I look away. Because, yeah. Obviously I’ve thought about following her. I’ve thought about putting a tracker in her bag. I’ve thought about putting one on Victor’s car. I’ve thought about installing one directly into Victor Tremblay’s fucking skull. I have options.