Page 120 of Under Your Scars

Is he trying to poison me or something?Seems out of place for him to be so cordial with me.

I take the tiniest sip and then rest the glass on my knee to resume smoking. Elliot lights his own cigarette, takes a drag, and blows the smoke out of his nose.

“Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Nothing like smoking a cig in the middle of the night while you brood.”

“I’m not brooding. I’m just…thinking.”

“And that’s why I brought the scotch. To loosen the tongue. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

I take another drag and sink into my chair a little further, letting my head fall against the back of it. “Your daughter is one extraordinary woman. She ripped open my soul and made me a better man but…” I look down and flick some ashes over the railing of the porch. “I’ll never be good enough for her. I don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Danger is my guess,” Elliot says, and I try not to react. “She’s always liked the guys that were a little bit bad for her.”

I laugh out the smoke from my lungs with a cough. “That explains it.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch as Elliot sits up and grabs the gun from the side of the table, and my blood runs cold when he points it at me. We both go still, and then he flips the gun upside down and tells me to take it.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” He takes a sip of his drink and squeezes his eyes shut before rubbing one. “It was my very first piece.”

I examine the gun, my heart still thudding wildly in my chest after being held at point-blank range. It’s a deep, obsidian black. Custom engraved with his initials. It’s pretty common for people who live or have lived in Meridian City to get their initials engraved or etched into their guns. Less likely to be stolen. I nonchalantly check the chamber. Loaded.

“Pretty,” I agree, extraordinarily unimpressed. I have seven of the same model in my basement. Andmanyguns that arefarprettier.

He nods towards my glass of amber liquid. “Finish that.”

I raise my eyebrow. Now I’m suspicious. “Why?”

He picks up the manila folder and hands it to me. “Because you’ll need it, kid.”

Elliot patiently waits while I down the rest of the drink he gave me, and then I take the manila folder from him. I give him a questionable look, but his gaze is off into the darkness of the night, nursing his drink while he rocks in his chair and chain-smokes. I snuff out my own cigarette and then open the folder.

I go unnaturally rigid in my chair when I realize I’ve seen these words before.

This is the unredacted version of the police report for Diana Young’s murder.

I only have to get to the first sentence to understand why Elliot said I needed the scotch, but I can’t stop myself from reading the entire thing, clearing my throat uncomfortably when I see my dad’s name. Clear as day.

“Thomas Caledon Reeves, when interviewed, admitted to the murder of Diana, Lisa, and Mary Young. He was taken into custody on three counts of first-degree murder.”

I drop the manila folder, spilling the papers all over the porch. I look at Elliot, still gazing out into the darkness.

My chest hurts so bad that I can hardly breathe, and I clutch the arm of the rocking chair so hard I can hear it warp and groan under my grip.

“My father didnotkill your first wife,” I growl. “This is some sick fucking joke. He was a good man, and a loyal husband.”

“He was a spoiled prick who couldn’t take no for an answer,” he snarls back. “Look at me, kid.”

As if I wasn’t already shooting daggers at him with my eyes, my gaze is laser-focused on him.

“I remember your face.”

I feel like I’m freefalling through space. The edges of my vision go black.

And I realize I remember his too.