Zane, dammit. Not fair. Not fair at all.
“What are we gonna do?” Rafe mutters, glancing in the direction of the bathroom, brows drawn together. “If just talking about it makes him sick…”
“Can you think up a better way of doing this?” I snap, as furious at those who did this to Zane as for my own inability to help him. “Then by all means, tell me.”
Fuck, I’m so out of my depth here it’s not even funny.
“Nothing to do but get it all out of him.” Dylan tugs at the silver hoop in his lip, his blue eyes dark with anger. “Has to be done.”
“Not your fault, Ty,” Rafe says.
I shoot to my feet and start pacing, because fuck it, it feels like it’s my fault. “Fuck this shit,” I mutter.
I’m the oldest. I’m responsible for them. Yeah, I couldn’t have protected Zane when he was a kid. I didn’t know him. But the guilt twisting up my insides doesn’t care about that. It insists I failed him like I failed Ash, like I failed my son for the first four years of his life by not being there for them.
Seems forever before Zane staggers out of the bathroom, a pale ghost, Ash hauling him toward us by one colorfully inked arm. My brother sends a tiny nod my way, and it does little to relax me.
Wordlessly, I head to the back of the shop, grab a plastic cup and fill it with water from the cooler. Returning, I hand it to Zane, who’s slumped over in the armchair. He sips at it and shoots me a grateful look.
He shouldn’t be grateful. Not when this interrogation is what made him sick in the first place.
That wasn’t the cause, my mind reasons with me. It’s his past. His memories. He probably pukes his guts out every night, if his nightmares are anything like his memories, and I bet they are.
Still.
I sink down on my chair and rake my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face. “Look, man.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “If you can’t do this, I understand. I understand now, okay? I had no fucking clue. Maybe you’d rather write this shit down instead, or tell Ash, or your wife, I dunno… I feel like we pushed you against the fucking wall, when I just wanted to help. I never thought…” I wave a hand, feeling like a thug and an idiot. “Never realized, dammit.”
“Fuck that.” Zane gulps down the rest of the water and lifts his gaze. It’s sharp and shadowed. “I said I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
Christ. “Zane.”
“It’s not much, but…” He shrugs and rolls the glass between his hands, spots of red coloring his otherwise bloodless cheeks. “But I’m not finished yet.”
His choice of words rattles me more than I’ll ever admit.
“Any details,” Ash mutters, nodding at him. “Anything, man. Where the house was, what those motherfuckers were called. The year. The names of the other kids.”
“The house was… in Wausau. I think. It was near the river. As for when…” He lifts a hand to scratch at the shaved side of his head. “It was before they moved me to Madison, so I guess I must’ve been seven or so. Maybe eight? Damn, I can’t…”
Ash reaches over and plucks the glass from his hands. “Damn them.”
Exactly my feelings.
Eight years old. Fucking hell. I wanna punch someone so fucking bad. If Zane remembers right, and if I ever find these guys, well… I’ll cut off their balls and feed them to them, then I’ll skin them and throw them to the dogs.
Whatever is left of them.
If anyone did anything like that, anything at all to hurt Jax or Isa, to hurt any kid, I fucking swear… It’s all I can do not to howl my rage and
grief. To remain seated, muscles coiled and stomach in a knot, waiting for Zane to bleed some more, to hurt some more, hoping it’ll be useful in the end.
That it wasn’t for nothing.
“Can you find that house?” I ask him, and mentally cross my fingers.
Zane shrugs. “I guess. It’s been many years.”
“What about the guy’s name?”