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I tuck my gun in my jeans and go over to him, flicking on the light as I get closer so I can inspect him. He has a bruise blooming on his face, and the knuckles of both hands are bustedopen, but other than that he looks okay. “Are you hurt?” I demand, making sure there isn’t something I can’t see going on.
“Just my pride,” he mutters.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask him.
“Yeah, somebody trying to get something I have,” he tells me cryptically. “I’ll take care of it.”
I decide we can talk more about that after we get everything buttoned up. I hold out my hand to him and Dad shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says, not looking at me and instead studying the floor around him.
I stay frozen where I am, uncertain what he is telling me. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t stand right now.” I don’t say anything and my father looks up at me, seeing my confusion. “My legs,” he explains. “They gave out; they’re numb.”
“Why?” I ask, because that’s not normal.
“I have MS, Declan,” my dad says on an exhale. “Multiple Sclerosis.”
I look down at my dad, the man who has always been my hero. My giant, the protector, the strongest man I know, and I can’t compute what he is saying. I look away from him and pace in a circle, trying to process the words. But still I can’t register the information coming at me.
The sound of tires screeching outside draws my attention back as I hear the roar of Axel’s Bronco and the motor of Slade’s Audi stopping in the driveway.
“Declan,” Dad says, calling my attention back to him, “don’t tell your brothers.”
My brothers come in with guns drawn, Axel from the back, Slade from the front. “It’s clear,” I call to them, but they still come to me, eyes scanning with their guns out.
“What the fuck happened?” Axel demands.
“Couple of thugs tried to break in while I was putting Roman to bed. They probably thought no one was home. I surprised them, got one in the leg, and then they took off,” my father rattled out.
Slade looks at my father on the ground. “You okay?”
“Are you sure they’re gone?” Axel demands, his gun still drawn. “Where is Roman?”
“He’s at my place,” I tell them.
Axel looks over and signals for Slade to follow him. “Let’s go and make sure it’s okay over there.” Axel takes our safety seriously. He will most likely spend the rest of the night scouring every nook and cranny of our block to make sure there is no one hiding anywhere.
I lean down and lift my father—my great, hulking, muscular father—and put him on the armchair near us. I grab a dining chair near me and sit across from him.
“I need you to start being honest with me, Dad,” I say, leveling my gaze at him.
My father lets out a long breath. “I started to have some brain fog after your mom died, forgetting random shit, and I just thought it was all my grief and trying to keep everything on track.
“After a year, I started with muscle spasms. I went to my doc, and he said it was most likely due to stress. We laughed it off, and I went on. But then I started with the numbness and tripping. So I went back, and he did an MRI.”
“When was that?” I demand.
He looks to me like a child who’s just been caught taking an extra cookie. “Last year.”
“Last year?!” I shout, my eyes bulging with irritation. “What the fuck, Dad! You can’t keep this shit from us!”
“Look, I’ve been seeing neurologists in Boston, and I’ve been put on several different medications,” he tells me gruffly. “But it’s been getting worse lately.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been under stress,” he says. “They say that can make the symptoms worse, make them harder to control.”
“What sort of stress?” I ask immediately, thinking about the phone calls, wondering if he’ll finally be honest with me about them.