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“Do you hurt your daughter?” Damian asks.

Mr. Morgan’s jaw ticks. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Damian tilts his head. “You don’t know? You should.”

Mr. Morgan’s glare doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker of something—uncertainty, maybe—in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Damian takes another step forward, the floor creaking under his weight. “You know who Ava and your daughter go to school with, don’t you?”

Mr. Morgan narrows his eyes, his confusion evident now.

“I’m Damian Cross. Lucas Cross’s son.”

Mr. Morgan’s eyes widen. He shifts in his chair, his knuckles growing white on the armrests.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about my father,” Damian says. “They’re all true.”

The silence in the room grows thick.

“If you ever lay a hand on your daughter again…” Damian’s voice is as gentle and soft as a summer breeze. He lifts his head and scratches his chin, his expression growing pensive. “I’m not sure what might happen to you, but I’ll bet your vices are plentiful. They’d have to be if you’re enough of a worm to hurt your daughter. Drugs, maybe, but alcohol can be a killer too.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “If there’s enough of it in your system.”

Mr. Morgan’s face is pale. His eyes are wide and baffled, like he’s looking at something inhuman. Something capable of anything.

I’ve heard Damian make these threats before, and I always assumed he never actually said the words “I’ll kill you” in order to avoid culpability. But I don’t think that’s it.

No. I think he knows there’s something more chilling about leaving the threat unspoken.

And, God help me, I admire him for it.

What Damian is doing is wrong. It’s reprehensible, actually. But it’s so much more effective than my paltry words. My righteous speeches. My carefully documented evidence.

Damian doesn’t fight fair. He fights to win. And right now, I don’t care that it’s wrong. Because for the first time, Mr. Morgan actually looks afraid.

Damian’s gaze snaps to me. “Ava. Go wait in the car.”

I blink. “What?”

“Now.”

For a moment, I can’t move. I glance at Mr. Morgan, whose face is pale and set in a mask of fear and humiliation.

I wish I could take a picture of it.

Without another word, I turn and walk to the door. My steps are slow, as if I’m moving through water. When I make it outside, the cool air hits my face, and I exhale shakily. The world hums around me. It all looked different a moment ago. A different house. Another life.

I don’t know right from wrong anymore.

Damian

“What do you have to say?” Ava asks. “I know you’ve been waiting to issue a command since we left Mr. Morgan’s house.”

I lean back in the booth, the vinyl creaking beneath me. We stopped here—some rustic diner off the highway—before our flight back to California. She needed food. I needed an environment that would keep my temper in check. If we were on the plane alone right now, I’d be tempted to yell.

I always knew naivety could lead to a reckless streak in my precious girl, and yet I can’t seem to calm my simmering anger.

I exhale through my nose. “You can never go to Mr. Morgan’s house again.” My voice shakes ever so slightly. “You may—on occasion—visit home without me. But you’ll never enter that house.”

Her brows pull together. “Visit home without you…”