Page 92 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Right. Issy Grey. So powerful. So special. So tough.”

“She could kick your ass.” I get a boot to the face for that, and spit out blood. “I could kick your ass too,” I say. Because fuck it. If this asshole is gonna kill me, let’s get on with it. I’ve been a dead man walking ever since I shot my father a few months ago.

“Not like this you can’t,” he says.

“No shit. So why don’t you cut these ties off and make it fair.”

He kicks me in the back of the head this time. My ears begin to ring. “No one ever said the fight was fair, Finn. You know that better than anyone.”

I don’t answer. Why bother?

“You know what I don’t understand?”

I don’t answer that either.

“Why you didn’t just step into his boots when it was all said and done.”

Now I’m curious. “Who?”

“Your old man. He was handing this over to you on a fuckin’ silver platter. And you walked away.”

I close my eyes, trying to figure out what he’s talking about.

“You came to Denver. You gave it all up to start over, and where did it get ya? Right here, under Declan’s thumb.”

“Obviously,” I croak. “I didn’t realize Declan and my father were basically the same fuckin’ guy.”

“They are? Is that right?” His enunciation is sloppy. They ahhh. Iz zat right. He’s got a prison drawl, I realize. More commonly known as… thug. “You sure about that?” Caleb asks. “Are you really sure about that? Because you sure as fuck came here lookin’ for something, Murphy.”

I sure as fuck did.

“Does it have anything to do with this?” Caleb holds up a phone. My phone. The burner phone. “You don’t need to answer that. I already know. Did it ever occur to ya, Murphy, that you’re not the only one playing this game from both ends?”

What?

He’s lying. This is a trap. Don’t answer him. He’s lying.

“Yeah, I knew,” he says. “I always knew you was dirty, Finn. I always knew you and your old man were playing for the other side.”

What?

“You never fooled me,” he says, tapping the phone to his shaved skull. “I had you pegged as a double the minute I met you back when you was four.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I wheeze.

“Little fuckin’ do-gooder. That’s what you were.”

I laugh. And it hurts. My head, my ribs, my heart.

“Always telling me, ‘Not supposed to lie, Caleb. Not supposed to steal, Caleb. Not supposed to hit people.’ Well, fuck you,” he says, spit coming out of his mouth with his words. “Just fuck you. You think you’re better than me?”

“Honestly?” I manage to croak out.

“What’s that?” he asks, bending down, like he wants to hear me better. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“It don’t take much,” I whisper.

“What?”