Page 136 of The Lilac River

As we walked through the lobby and out into the warm Silver Peaks night, I felt it—relief. But also, sadness. A bone-deep grief for the father we should’ve had. For what he chose to be instead.

Still, we had each other.

And tonight, we took back our future. First, though, there was something I had to do.

Chapter 48

Revolution – The Beatles

Nash

The air inside the police station was flat and metallic, laced with the scent of disinfectant and old coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in a washed-out yellow glare that made the face of Ethan Evans, the deputy behind the desk, look older than he was.

As he typed, the clatter of the keyboard echoed too loud in the otherwise quiet room. I knocked twice on the counter with my knuckles.

Ethan looked up; his eyes looked hollow with weariness.

“Long day?” I asked.

Ethan sighed and pushed out of his chair. “Hey, Nash. You could say that. Are you here about your dad?” His gaze flitted between me and the wall that separated us from the holding cells.

“Yeah, did the sheriff tell you I was coming?”

He nodded. “Said you could have ten minutes. Unless you want longer, I can probably swing it.”

“Nope. Ten minutes is all I’ll need.”

“Okay then. Follow me.” He lifted the flap on the counter and ushered me through.

He led me to a door which opened into a corridor where the walls were painted beige-gray, grime creeping into the corners. On one side was a bulletin board full of forgotten faded notices and pictures curling slightly at the edges. We didn’t have a lot of crime in Silver Peaks and were lucky to have our own police department. The neighboring Sweet Maple Falls and Clementine Hill shared. I knew Joe Harley, the Sheriff, and he had three times as many deputies and a much bigger, more modern station.

“He’s in the last one,” Ethan said. “Right side. Hold your nose. Old Petey’s in the first.”

Old Petey. Regular drunk. Regular arrest. Regularly forgot that jail cells weren’t bathrooms.

The stench hit me like a fist. Sweat and sour misery. If I didn’t picture the mountains outside, I’d think the walls were closing in.

And there he was.

The mighty Mayor Michael Miller, slumped on the edge of a bunk, head in his hands. His silk tie, undoubtedly funded by stolen ranch money, dangled between his knees like a noose. His designer suit and Italian leather shoes clashed violently with the plastic mattress and rough, gray-striped blanket. But it wasn’t the cell that was out of place. It was him. He was the blight.

I didn’t speak.

Just stood there.

Watching, letting myself revel in it.

Reveled in the misery of his downfall. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sharp. Not broken. Not sorry. Still defiant.

“Nice and comfy in there?” I asked, sliding my hands into my jeans’ pockets. All casual indifference because this meant nothing to me. I wasn’t concerned. This was my wish.

His nostrils flared. Anger flushed across his face. Raw and red. “This is your doing isn’t it?” he snarled, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, like he’d been forming the words for hours. Rolling them around his mouth. “How dare you? I’m your fucking father.”

He shot to his feet, coming so close I could see every busted capillary in his cheeks. I smelled his cologne, expensive yet drowning in stale whisky. His hands gripped the bars, knuckles white. Confident and threatening.

“How dare I?” I told him, leaning a hip against the wall, at ease with his situation. “How dare you? How the fuck could you do it, huh?”

“What?” The rise and fall of his chest was deep and heavy. “I don’t know what the hell you think I’ve?—”