Rian flips through. “She was pretty intense. It’s like she documented everything she ever did.”
“If the truth is anywhere, it’ll be in there.”
He nods, squinting at the writing, lips moving slightly as he reads an entry, when there’s a noise downstairs.
We both freeze. He looks up, alarmed.
Some voices drift up from below, and one of them doesn’t sound happy. It’s a man, deep and resonant, arguing with Megan’s mom. They’re fighting about something, and I can guess what.
I stare at Rian.
He doesn’t move. There are footsteps and more voices, this time coming closer and getting louder, until they clarify into meaning.
“—You let that fucker in our house. You really let that fucker in our house. How the hell could you, Amy?”
“Patrick, please, calm down.” Megan’s mom, sounding panicked.
“No, fuck no, you let the piece of shit that killed our daughter in our house, and I won’t stand for it. He murdered our little girl, that piece of trash.” It’s her father, a man named Patrick, a member of the clan. He hasn’t been active since Megan died and Dad hasn’t forced him back into action. From what I understand, he works at one of our restaurants behind the bar, and it’s considered a sort of retirement.
“Patrick,” Mrs. Byrne says sharply, but it’s too late. The ladder flexes and a head pokes up from down below. Mr. Byrne, Patrick himself, stares up at us with gray hair, a wrinkled pale face, beady blue eyes, and a rage-filled scowl.
“You motherfucker,” he says, hauling himself up. He’s not a small man and it takes some effort. Megan’s dad is a dark splotch in my memory, always half drunk, always on the edge of anger, prowling around the house like a lion.
Rian tosses me the diary. “All right, Patrick. I don’t mean you any harm. We’re only here—”
“You piece of shit.” Patrick pulls a gun from his waistband, a small revolver. His hand is trembling, shaking wildly, and the man’s sweating like crazy, but he aims right at Rian’s face. Tears stream down the old man’s cheeks, and snot runs from his nose. “You murdered my little girl.”
“Patrick,” Rian says, staying calm, hands raised. “Go easy. You’re making a mistake.”
“Put down the fucking gun, you old psychopath!” Amy screams from down below. “Oh, you stupid bastard, don’t kill the boy! There’s been enough blood in this damn house!”
“He took our Megan away.” Patrick takes a step forward. He’s crying, sobbing, the gun swaying side to side, and I cringe back away from it as terror runs rampant through my heart. “You bastard, you took her from me, and I won’t let you walk out of here alive.”
Rian opens his mouth but nothing comes out. It’s drowned by a blast from the gun. It bucks back in Patrick’s hand, and for one horrible moment I think Rian’s dead, his face missing, his skull blown to bits. Instead, he stands there, unhurt as a hole in the roof streams light down into the attic.
“Ah, fuck,” Patrick says and Rian moves. Another shot goes off, another near miss, and Rian slams into the older man. Rian shoulders him to the ground and kicks the gun to the side, sending it skittering away, as Patrick groans on the floorboards, mixed up in insulation, the pink stuff floating in the air like snow.
“Daley, run!”
I chase after Rian, hopping over Patrick, the diary under my arm. Amy screams as Rian crashes down the ladder and sprints past her, careening off the wall toward the steps. I’m right on his heels.
“Sorry, Mrs. Byrne! Good seeing you!”
“You bastards, you fucking bastards,” Patrick screams from upstairs and another shot goes off. A bullet hole appears in the wall above Rian’s head as he leaps down the steps two at a time. “I’ll kill you!”
We reach the bottom and burst out the front door. Rian sprints to the truck, gets in behind the wheel, and starts the engine just as Patrick comes out behind us. More shots go off as I dive into the passenger seat, and Rian peels out, pulling away fast.
“Holy shit,” I say, panting hard, body tingling with electricity and adrenaline. “Holy shit, Rian!”
“I know,” he says, knuckles white as he drives fast. “Crazy fucking bastard nearly killed me.”
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.” He grimaces slightly as he touches his side.
And his fingers come back bloody.
Chapter 14
Rian
I prod at the stitches in my side as I sit on the steps of the building across the street from where Daley works. It’s late, getting close to seven at night, and the wound’s itchy and aching.
I’m lucky that old bastard was a bad shot, half-drunk, out of his mind with grief, and crying on top of it all. Otherwise, he would’ve blown my brains out instead of catching me on the side with a lucky deep graze. I’ll live, but it hurts like hell.