I’d never really believed we’d give up, never believed Ford would take the deal.
“Fuck.” I leaned over, bracing my elbows on my knees, sucking in one breath, then another.
The burning in my gut spread to my chest, my head. My vision blurred with tears of rage. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair.
A low sound, almost a growl, came from beside me. I raised my head to see Griffen motionless, staring down at the top of his desk, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles bunched below his ears.
Without warning, he flew from his seat and let out a primal scream, the sound filled with every ounce of his frustration and rage, filled with the helpless fury that had snowballed since the moment we’d learned of Ford’s arrest.
With another bellow of raw emotion, Griffen reached out an arm and swept everything from the desk, sending our laptops and papers crashing to the floor.
He spun around, arms raised, the anger surging through him, needing a target. I understood what he felt on a visceral level, knew the need to let out his fury, the pain of knowing that despite trying our best, our brother would still suffer.
The course of Ford's life had changed when our father had been killed. We’d tried to stop it. We’d failed. We'd failed our brother.
Before I knew it, Griffen was climbing onto the desk. Feet planted on the shiny surface, he lunged at the trophy buck hanging on the wall, grabbed both antlers, and tore it to the ground.
Something broke through my own rage, something clean and pure. The bare spot on the wall was a little bit of my father stripped from the room. It felt right.
I didn't care that technically this was Griffen's office. Griffen's house. It was mine too, and I wanted every reminder of my father gone. I dragged over one of the heavy leather chairs and stood on the arms, reaching up to rip that poor bear's head off the wall. It deserved better. I added it to the growing pile Griffen had started, watching as he tossed a stuffed mallard on top.
“Any attachment to these curtains?” I asked with a grunt as I tore them to the ground.
“I fucking hate them. The curtains, the trophies. That goddamn painting of Prentice. I want it all out.”
Together we stripped all signs of my father from Heartstone's office. Griffen swung the French doors wide, and we carted all of it to a clear spot in the grass behind the house, piling it high. I whirled at the sound of movement behind me to see Sterling standing there, her eyes wide with fascination.
“I'll be right back,” she breathed and took off at a run into the house.
I didn't know Sterling could move that fast. She was back only minutes later with what looked like yards of white satin shoved under her arm, a half-full bottle of vodka in one hand, a lighter in the other.
Sterling tossed the bundle of fabric on the top of the pile and upended the vodka bottle, watching with an exuberant grin as the vodka soaked into the pile. When it was empty, she tossed it in the grass behind us and flicked her lighter, setting it to the closest bit of white satin. Flames ate at the heavy fabric, greedy, growing by the second.
If we'd wanted to take it back, it was too late.
The three of us stood there side by side and watched it burn, these memories of our father and the mark he'd left on the house. On us.
Finn turned up, taking a spot beside me, his arms crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow lifted. “Redecorating the office?”
“Taking out the trash,” I answered. Finn was as much a stranger to me as Griffen had been. He'd left home not long after Griffen, choosing the military over life with our father. His constant bitching about the household cooks was entertaining but other than that, I didn't know him very well. Now was as good a time to start as any.
“Anything you want to add?”
Finn stiffened as if arrested by the thought. I wondered what was going through his head when he turned and jogged back into the house as Sterling had. He was back seconds later, half-shoving and half-dragging the throne-like leather chair that had sat behind Prentice's desk as far back as I could remember. Griffen grunted in approval, moving to grab the other side of the chair. Together they hefted it to the top of the pile, dodging sparks as it settled.
“I hate that chair,” Finn murmured from beside me.
“Me too,” Sterling agreed. “The way he'd sit there and stare down at me, telling me what a disappointment I was. How I'd never amount to anything. I always figured—why bother trying? Nothing I did was ever good enough. Not for the mighty Prentice Sawyer.”