Page 46 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Both me and Knox looked at Maverick. We all knew. Momma hadn't left the holler in months. If the sheriff was here, it was because of something one of us did. And Maverick was the only one who'd been off the mountain today.

Maverick did a weird little jester-like move, a flourish that was both mocking and completely insane. "Okay, fine," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I might've gotten into a little fight today."

I looked down at his knuckles, raw and bloody, and felt a fresh wave of annoyance wash over me. "Not really the best time for that, don't ya think?" I said, my voice flat. "Asshole."

I let out a long, weary sigh, the sound lost in the heavy air. I looked at Maverick, really looked at him, and just shook my head. There was no point in saying anything else. The damage was done. I turned and walked past him, my boots crunching on the dirt path towards Momma's house, leaving him standing there with Knox.

"What?" Maverick called out, his voice a mocking question.

I didn't even bother to turn around. I just kept walking. Knox shot Maverick a look that could curdle milk, then fell in line behind me. A moment later, I heard Maverick's heavy footsteps as he caught up, the three of us falling into a silent, grim stroll towards the dark, looming shape of Momma's house at the heart of the holler. The fun was over. Now, we had to deal with the consequences.

The path to Momma's house was always the same, but today it felt like walking to the gallows. The late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows that stretched across the dirt, making the familiar trees look like twisted, grasping claws. The old house loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the hazy orange light, its windows like vacant eyes staring out at the world. It was a place that had settled beneath the weight of its years, groaning and creaking throughout the day, a living thing that breathed with the secrets of our family.

We walked up the warped steps, the gravel crunching under our boots like bones. The porch groaned beneath our combined weight, a long, mournful sound that seemed to echo the dread in my gut. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of drying herbs and something else, something sickly sweet, like old flowers left to rot in a vase.

We didn't stop. We didn't knock. Maverick pushed it open, the wood creaking, and we stepped inside, into the suffocating darkness of our mother's home.

The moment the door groaned shut behind us, the air inside changed. It was thick, heavy, and smelled of dried herbs, woodsmoke. The only light came from a few candles scattered around the house, their flames flickering. It was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring.

Then we heard her. A soft, shuffling sound, the rustle of her dress, and the sharp, rhythmic click of low heels on the wooden floorboards. Momma was coming.

She appeared around the corner, a tall, imposing figure in a long, black dress that seemed to absorb the light. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, tight bun, not a single strand out of place, and her face was a mask of cold, hard fury. Her eyes, the same intense, piercing blue as mine, scanned us, one by one, lingering on each of us like she was looking for a weakness. She carried herself like a queen, a ruler surveying her domain, and in a way, she was. This was her kingdom, and we were her subjects.

I felt a familiar knot of fear tighten in my stomach. I'd always been afraid of her. She was a scary, intense woman, a force of nature that could tear you down with a single word or a look. All I ever wanted was her love, her approval. I wanted to be a good boy, to make her proud, to show her that I was a man worthy of her respect. But she still treated us like we were little boys, like we were still under her thumb, still her responsibility. Maybe now, with Rory here, with us claiming our bride and planning on settling down, she would finally see us as men. Maybe she would finally recognize us as her equals.

Maverick, on the other hand, had a different relationship with her. He wasn't afraid of her. He respected her, but he also challenged her, testing her limits, pushing her buttons just to see what would happen. He was her favorite, her wild child, the one who was most like her, even if she hadn't birthed him. She might as well have. He was the one who would inherit her throne, and we all knew it.

Momma stopped in front of us, her hands clasped in front of her, her fingers twitching. She looked at Maverick, her eyes narrowing. "What have you done?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr.

Maverick opened his mouth, an appeasing gesture already forming on his lips. "Now, Momma, don't be mad⁠—"

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The knock on the door was so loud it shook the whole house, a sound like a giant's fist pounding on the wood. Any trace of Maverick's casual defiance vanished. Momma's face went rigid, her blue eyes turning to chips of ice. Without another word, she shoved past us, her shoulder connecting hard with Maverick's chest, pushing him back a step. A low, breathy giggle escaped Maverick's lips, a sound of pure, unhinged amusement. He looked at me, his eyes wide and dancing. He looked right at the front door, his voice a low, ominous whisper.

"Death's comin'."

"Get out of my sight," she hissed, her voice dangerously low. She jabbed a finger at each of us in turn, even at Knox, her own brother. "Now. All three of you. Go on in the other room." Her gaze then locked onto me, and it felt like a physical blow. "Now," she gritted out, her jaw tight.

I straightened up instinctively, my spine ramrod straight. I gave her a single, sharp nod, the only response she'd accept. Knox and Maverick followed my lead, and we turned as one, heading towards the archway that led to the sitting area next to the kitchen. We were boys again, being sent to our room like we'd been caught stealing pies.

The room was just as eerie as the rest of the house. It was dominated by a massive, velvet sofa that had probably been green once but was now the color of moss and regret. It was sunken in the middle from years of being sat on, and the fabric was worn thin in places, revealing the dark stuffing beneath. Across from it, two high-backed chairs, upholstered in a faded floral pattern, faced each other like a pair of silent, judgmental old women. A heavy, dark wood coffee table sat between them, its surface scarred with cigarette burns and rings from sweaty glasses. The air here was thicker, heavy with the scent of old paper from the towering bookshelves that lined one wall, their shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes and strange, dusty artifacts. In the corner, a large taxidermy owl stared out from its perch, its glass eyes seeming to follow our every move.

We stood there in the gloom, the three of us packed into the dusty room like statues in a forgotten tomb. I could hear the faint, muffled sound of Momma's voice as she opened the front door, her tone shifting instantly from ice to honey. "Sheriff Duffy," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "What a surprise. What brings you all the way out here?"

My eyes flicked to Maverick. He was grinning that damn grin, a little half-smirk that made my stomach clench. His foot was tapping a frantic, silent rhythm against the worn floorboards, a coiled spring of energy just waiting to be released. He looked like he was ready to pounce, to burst through the archway and start something right there.

I shook my head, a sharp, jerky motion, and leaned in close, my voice a harsh whisper. "We need to see what's goin' on," I hissed. "Don't do nothin' stupid."

Maverick's grin widened, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Me stupid?" he whispered back, a low, breathy laugh escaping his lips. "Blythe, I'm the smartest one here."

Before I could throttle him, I heard their footsteps approaching, the heavy thud of the sheriff's boots and the sharp, confident click of Momma's heels. They were coming our way. Maverick's laughter died in his throat, and he straightened up, his face settling into a mask of feigned innocence. We all stood there, silent and still, as Momma and Sheriff Duffy stepped into the archway.

Sheriff Duffy stepped into the archway, his wide frame blocking out the light from the front room. He was a big man, with a belly that strained against the buttons of his shirt and a face that looked like it had been carved from a block of sourwood. He had a cocky-ass grin plastered on his face, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. He hooked his thumb in his belt and tipped his cowboy hat back with his other hand, a gesture of fake southern hospitality that made my skin crawl.

"Well, hey boys," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension. "Now, why would I come out here? Anyone have an idea? 'Cause it's not 'cause I enjoy y'all's company. I can promise you that. I wouldn't waste my time with the likes of you all."

I gritted my teeth together, my jaw aching with the effort of not saying anything. I just glared at him, my hands clenched into my pockets.