Page 44 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

He stared at me, then at my mother, then back. “You think you know everything. You think just because you made a little money, you’re better than us. You don’t know shit about what it takes to survive in a place like this.”

He was starting to shake, voice rising. “You don’t know shit about loyalty, or family. About what’s owed and what’s earned. You left. You ran off to play computers, let your mom rot here. And now you want to come back and play hero?”

He stepped forward, close enough to bump my chest with his. “You want to say I did it? Why’d you run then, Ford?” He laughed, wild and mean. “Nobody cares. They all think you did it. That’s the joke. You’ll always be the killer here. Doesn’t matter what the truth is.”

He started to circle me, slow and predatory, looking for a weak spot. “Just like when you were a kid,” he sneered. “Always poking at things you didn’t understand. You never did learn when to shut your mouth.”

He swung, fast and ugly. His hand caught me in the jaw, but I was ready for it this time. I stumbled, but stayed upright.

He looked shocked for a second, like he expected me to go down.

I didn’t.

He swung again. I ducked, caught his arm, and twisted. The pain made him howl.

“You’re done,” I said, voice cold. “It’s over.”

He tried to break free, but I had the leverage now.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, and it was true. “Not anymore.”

He spit in my face, the last weapon he had.

I let go, and he staggered back, gasping, then falling to the floor.

The shaking started in my hands and climbed up my arms, until I couldn’t tell if I was cold or just running on fumes. I tried to focus, to keep my mind anchored in the now. But it was no use.

All I could see was blood. The memory crashed through my skull like a whiteout. I was seventeen, walking home in the dark, the cold biting so hard I couldn’t feel my face.

Ty’s truck had followed me, headlights off, rumbling over the ruts in the road. I heard the engine before I saw him—he always took the long way, creeping along the shoulder so he could time it just right, pull up next to me and say something clever or mean. Sometimes both.

But this time, when the engine died, he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, jacket unzipped, hands jammed in his pockets.

He looked at me, and for the first time, I realized he was scared.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “About everything. I just—I got drunk and I told people things I shouldn’t have, and now it’s out, and ? —”

The porch light flicked on. My father’s silhouette filled the doorway.

“Get in here, Ford,” he barked. “Now.”

Ty flinched, then straightened up, trying to look tough. “I should go,” he said.

He didn’t. He followed me up the walk, trailing behind like a kid on his way to the principal.

My father met us at the door, eyes already red, a bottle in his hand. He looked at Ty, then at me, then back at Ty.

“What the fuck you doing here, Higgins?”

Ty tried to answer, but my dad didn’t wait. He reached out, grabbed Ty by the collar, and yanked him inside.

“Dad, stop,” I said, but he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.

He threw Ty against the wall, hard enough that the plaster cracked. The bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the tile. The reek of whiskey filled the hallway.

“You want to come here and run your mouth? You want to make trouble for my family?” My father’s voice was a growl. “You think you can just fuck around with my boy and not pay for it?”

Ty tried to push him away. My dad punched him in the stomach, once, then again, each blow heavy and final. Ty doubled over, wheezing, but didn’t cry out. He just shook.

I jumped in, tried to pull my dad off, but he was too strong. He backhanded me across the face. I went down, my head bouncing off the door frame. The world went soft around the edges.

When I looked up, Ty was on the floor, curled in on himself. My dad grabbed him by the arm, hauled him up, and dragged him outside.

I scrambled to my feet, followed them into the yard. The night was so quiet I could hear the ice forming on the gutters. Ty’s breath came in ragged bursts, white in the air.

He tried to run, but my father didn’t let him. He grabbed a whiskey bottle from the porch and slammed it over Ty’s head. Blood spurted out. Ty fell to the ground. No more white breaths.

My father picked Ty up, put him in his truck.

“Get in the back, boy,” he said to me in that gnarled violent voice.

Us at the creek. My father dragging me out of the truck. The truck on fire.

“Ty could still be breathing” I screamed. We needed to get him help.

My father laughed. “Boy you were here for this too. You better never say one word about it.”

The pain in my own head was too much. I sank to my knees. If I just took a break, I could get there in a few minutes.

But that was the last I remember. Until the next day, when my father told me to get the hell out of town.

And I did. Because I was too scared to do anything else.

I snapped back to the present, the taste of blood in my mouth, my hands clenched so tight my nails cut half-moons into my palms.

I looked at my father, slumped on the floor now, head in his hands.

He was old now. Slow. But the meanness hadn’t faded. If anything, it had gotten sharper, more concentrated.

“I remember everything.”

He sneered. “About what?”

“About Ty. About what you did to him.”

He scoffed, but there was fear in his eyes. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know you killed him,” I said. “I know you made me go to the creek with you to scare me, to make me an accomplice.”

“He wasn’t worth all this trouble,” he said with a sneer.

I shook my head. “He was a kid. Just a scared kid. I’m going to the cops,” I said, voice flat. “I’m going to tell them everything.”

He laughed, eyes wild. “They won’t do nothin’. Who do you think helped me cover it up all those years ago? My old friend the chief.” His laughter grew maniacal.

I turned to leave, but heard him get up and swiveled around. He swung at me, but I dodged, grabbed his arm, and threw him against the wall. The drywall cracked, dust raining down.

I held him there, face inches from his. “I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I whispered.

He sagged, all the fight gone. Just a tired old man, propped up by hate. “Still won’t believe you.”

I let him go, watched as he slid to the floor, gasping.

I pulled out my phone and hit the stop button on the whole ugly truth. “Yeah, well they’ll believe your own words.” I sent the file to the podcaster, the news, the police.

It was out there now.

And I was free.