Page 43 of Be My Brayshaw (Brayshaw High 4)

“Or fear of what we’d do.”

“It ain’t fear.” Royce steps up with a shrug. “If she was afraid, she never would have hid shit from us, and when we found out, she’d have tried to run. The girl lived on our property, in our group home. She went to our school, walked up in our house, lies and all. Someone afraid wouldn’t do any of that.”

“I have to agree,” our dad says, sliding his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe she’s a master con artist, and you’re both wrong.”

“Maybe she is, son.” He nods. “But maybe not.”

Royce frowns at our dad, but I shake him off. Now is not the time for this shit.

I waited all day to get home to my daughter, I won’t allow a deceiving blonde to take a second of my time.

I turn away from them both, kneeling in front of Zoey. “Daddy’s hungry, Zo. Wanna help me make a snack?”

“Me, too?” She smiles.

“Yeah, you, too.” I laugh.

“And Uncle Bro too!” Royce adds, scooping her up and helicoptering her into the house, but not before pausing and turning to Maddoc. “You wish you had a cool nickname, bro.”

Maddoc scoffs, but with a grin. “My kid’s gonna call you Uncle Dumbass.”

“Nah... your kid’s gonna call me daddy,” Royce throws right as he runs off.

Raven laughs, gripping Maddoc by the arm before he can chase after him.

We step inside, not one of us bothering to glance back at the girl left alone in the back seat.I unbuckle Zoey from her car seat, and she hops right out, dashing across the driveway until she reaches the porch steps.

“Oh no!” She freezes, turning back right as I begin following. “My train!”

Maybell walks out right then, and I smile from her to Zo. “I’ll get it, baby girl. Go inside with Miss Maybell.”

“Okay!” Zoey grabs her hand and Maybell laughs as she drags her into the house.

I walk to the vehicle and open the back to grab her stuffed train when a streak of blonde catches my eye around the right side of the house.

Victoria must have seen us pull up and went out the back.

I close the door, tracking her movement and instead of sticking by the flowers this time, she searches across the mounds, picking one that looks ready to die and carries it to the farthest side of the pool. She chooses the only spot with the little bit of sunlight left and lies back, placing the flower on her chest right as her eyes close.

I head inside, make sure Zoey is good with Maybell, and take the stairs two at a time toward Victoria’s room.

The door is shut, but I had her lock removed, so I push it open with ease.

A quick, resilient burn fires down my throat as my senses are assaulted, a heavy mix of lavender and mint, sun and fucking sin, the only proof she lives inside these walls.

I had the room completely remodeled for her when I thought her place here was starting a lot differently.

Fresh paint and brand new furniture, a bright chandelier to match.

I wasn’t sure what her style would be, but satin seemed fitting and the colors are soft with some royal blue among the room, the crystals hanging from above offering a ray of light throughout where the sun or moon can’t reach.

Annoyance flares when I look in her closet, finding her small selection of clothes still neatly folded inside her bags, the hangers and drawers all empty, bed pristinely made as if she’s never even slept in it.

The two small blankets laying over the reading chair lead me to believe she hasn’t. The computer is off, curtain’s still drawn up the way they were the day it was prepared for her—before we found out she purposely withheld information from us.

She hasn’t settled in the slightest fucking bit.

I should be happy about that, her understanding she’s got no guarantee.

So why am I more pissed off than I was walking in here?

I grab her backpack and unzip it, pulling out her notebooks and binders before stuffing them back and looking into the small front pockets.

I glare at the near-empty baggie of weed stuffed inside, a half pack of Zig-Zags beneath it.

I zip it up and toss it back in the corner she had it in, kicking over the small garbage can, but there’s nothing in there but pencil shavings, the bedside drawers are empty, too.

What the fuck?

Next, I move into her private bathroom.

At least this area is being used. There’s a towel hanging over the rack and a small, open makeup pouch sitting on the counter. I glance inside, but it’s all normal bullshit.

Faded jeans sit on the top of a small laundry basket, so I grab them, checking the pockets. My brows lift as I feel something inside, but all I find is a sucker wrapper, a couple quarters, and a dollar receipt for a school newspaper.