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What the what?
“As long as he isn’t fostering kids anymore,” he goes on as if he hasn’t noticed the heavy silence. I bet he hasn’t, too lost in his own thoughts. “Maybe I was the last one he abused. Maybe this is all over. I can live with that.” When Asher grunts, Zane shoots him a sharp look. “I should fucking learn to live with that, Ash. Let him go, and hope he never comes back.”
Who’s to say he’s not right? Not like there’s anything else we can do.
“Dammit, he was here a week ago,” Asher says. “And the trash in the house seems about a week old. As if he left right after Zane last saw him.”
“That would contradict Megan’s theory,” Dakota says.
I frown. Megan’s theory makes sense to me, whereas the other one… “Why would he skip town after seeing Zane? For all he knows, Zane never reported him. He wouldn’t know Zane went to the police until today. For all we know, he wouldn’t even recognize Zane today. It’s been twelve years.”
“But the trash…” Tessa starts.
“He’s a psycho. Who knows how his sick mind works? Maybe he likes to sit among rotting things.”
Zane makes a faint noise and pales. “It always stank of rot,” he whispers. “The attic. Rotten wood and rotten meat. Sour.”
Hell.
Dakota leans into him, wrapping her arms around him.
“So he likes rot.” I clear my throat, because there’s a knot there the size of a boulder. “What if he isn’t gone yet?”
“And where is he hiding?”
Yeah, I don’t have a fucking answer. He might be staying in a motel somewhere until he’s sure the police won’t come sniffing around anymore.
But then why hasn’t he answered the phone, denied the accusations and gone on with his life? Wouldn’t it be easier? What would be the logic behind ignoring the police?
Unless he doesn’t know what the police want, what they know about him, and he panicked.
Seems to me we’ve all been in a state of panic this past month, and I’m having a hard-ass time thinking clearly. There’s a dull ache behind my eyes, hammering my skull to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying in vain to get rid of the pain.
“So we give up?” Erin asks, her voice small. She glances at Zane and gathers herself together with obvious effort. “I think this isn’t up to us. Zane should make that call.”
“Yeah. We’re with you, whatever you decide, Zen-man,” Dylan says, and Asher makes an agreeing noise—or maybe he’s just growling with irritation.
We look at Zane, and I wonder if this is the right thing to do—putting more fucking pressure on him when he’s clearly about to snap.
Then again, Erin is right. This is his battle. We’re just his army. He’s the one in charge.
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. He stares at us with eyes that are a bit too bright, his hands clutching Dakota’s. His
Mohawk is straighter today, in spite of everything that has gone down, and I can see him in my mind’s eye fixing it with gel and hairspray before leaving home. Making it as tall and intimidating as possible.
Getting ready for war.
And now this… this defeat. He’s gonna say we should let this go, I just know it. He more or less said it earlier, and I can’t blame him for not wanting to keep smashing his head against this wall.
Dammit. Shooting to my feet, I stalk to the window and look outside. I can’t take it. Can’t fucking look at him.
“Look, guys.” Zane’s voice is so low I strain to hear him, low and raspy like he’s been chain-smoking for days. It wouldn’t surprise me. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. Can’t let you put yourselves in more danger because of me, so yeah. Calling this off.”
I glance up sharply. He’s thinking of us, when he’s the one being torn apart? I open my mouth to say something, a curse most probably, when my phone rings.
Makes me jump up a mile, and I curse, hunting for it in my pockets. “Hold that thought.” I connect the call. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Vestri?” The male voice is familiar. “Wesley Logan with the police department. I have tried contacting Mr. Madden, but his phone seems to be switched off.”
