Page 124 of Things We Left Behind

The more realistic plans that didn’t involve me committing a homicide, no matter how much he deserved to have his face murdered, centered around drawing the attention of an independent witness.

Like Lucian’s football coach who had to wonder about the bruises. Or maybe the neighbors who lived on the other side of the Rollins family. Except Mr. Clemson had a hearing aid that he rarely used, and Mrs. Clemson was so busy talking she never seemed to hear anyone else.

I was going to figure it out, and I was going to make him stop. Then Lucian could go to college and not have to worry about his mom, and he’d be happy. Like really happy.

A muffled shout startled me. It was followed by the sound of breaking glass. Loud breaking glass. As in their living room window, I guessed.

My thumbs punched 911 before I’d even fully made the decision.

A sob broke the eerie silence, and I realized it had come from me.

I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering.

One of us had to end this tonight. And if it meant he’d hate me for the rest of his life, at least he’d have the rest of his life.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“There’s a man hurting his wife and son. It sounds bad. Please send help before it’s too late.” My voice broke.

“Okay, honey,” the operator said in a softer tone. “It’s gonna be all right. What’s the address?”

It took me two tries to get it out between sobs.

“I’ve got officers on the way right now.”

“Tell them to hurry up and to be careful. Mr. Rollins is a big guy, and he drinks all the time and he drives drunk,” I said, spewing out the list of reasons why I hated the man.

“Okay. The police will take care of this,” he promised.

“Thank you,” I whispered, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. It was cold up here on the roof. Cold and lonely waiting for Lucian to be okay.

“Are these your neighbors?” the operator asked.

I could hear sirens in the far-­off distance and willed them closer.

“He’s my friend,” I whispered.

Lucian

The handcuffs bit into my wrists. Broken glass cut the soles of my feet as Wiley Ogden marched me out the front door. Blood coursed from a dozen cuts on my face and arms. My father had managed to carve a shallow slice over my ribs with the knife before I’d taken it from him. My head hurt, and I was having trouble paying attention to what people were saying. Everything was blurry and muffled.

There were two patrol cars on the street in front of the house and an ambulance parked in the driveway. All three vehicles had their lights on, alerting everyone in the neighborhood to my shame.

There was a small contingent of concerned neighbors in bathrobes.

“What are you doing?” Simon Walton marched toward me, fire in his eyes and cats on his pajama pants.

I looked away, not wanting to see the judgment in the eyes of the man I’d come to think of as a surrogate father. But it wasn’t me his ire was directed at. He stepped between me and the chief of police and drilled a finger into Ogden’s flabby chest.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Wylie?”

“I’m arresting this punk prick for trying to cut his parents to ribbons with a chef’s knife,” the chief said loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“That’s not what happened!” The crowd parted, or my vision cleared long enough to bring Sloane into focus.

I looked away quickly, but not before seeing her tear-­streaked face. The horror. The guilt. She was still holding the cordless phone.

It was her. She’d called them. She was the reason my life was over. The reason my mother was unprotected. My mother, who had remained silent when my father told the cops I’d attacked them unprovoked.