Chapter 42
Justice
Brody was navigating the windy curves in West Covina when Nan called. They were in a heated discussion about a shipment James picked up. A few minutes later, we still haven’t arrived at his brother’s new house, and the silence kills me. Wincing, I ask, “The shipment is a person, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
One-word answers. We have officially snatched the golden ticket for a return to square one.
“Nan’s angry with you about the shipment?”
“Nae. She has a fondness for . . .”
When he wriggled his jaw, I elaborate on his behalf, “Letting out her aggression on shipments?”
“Aye.”
“Is that what she normally does when you don’t follow protocol?” And she’s angry with you about what?
“We have rules,” Brody finally shares. He stops at another stop sign among million-dollar homes.
“Should I know these rules?”
“Nae.”
Brody pulls into the drive of an imposing home as grand as the beach home Leith and Chevelle once owned. But there’s a warmth to the curb appeal instead of it oozing money. I want this. Maybe not a house as big. Hell, I could be satisfied if they cut this house in half and cut that half into another half. As long as Brody came home every night, I’d be elated.
“Justice,” Brody wriggles his jaw, “remember when I tried to reach out to you the other night? A week back, I called ye repeatedly?”
“Uh, yeah,” I try on a wry smile, wistful he’ll catch the same bug.
“I was worried about ya. That lad ye paid, he owed a bunch of people.”
I maneuver in my seat, being more attentive. “Oh.”
He grips the steering wheel in irritation. “When the McFarlands agreed to my request, ye stopped sending the bampot money. Someone he owed got his claws into him.”
The Christianly thing to do would be to feel empathy for Marcus LeRoux, but it’s fleeting.
“He owed a drug dealer named Wilmer.”
“Oh, gawd. Wilmer isn’t a common name. If he’s the drug dealer I know, we attended the same high school. He was a lost cause, tried to deal to the pastor’s son at church.”
“Eh. He’s the package.”
“Wilmer’s in California?” I gasp.
“Yeah, he’s making his rounds, meeting my clan. Now, he’s in Mam’s basement. She’ll keep him company until I get there.”
What in the Julius Caesar crap is this? The whole family’s torturing Wilmer? Clearing my throat, I measure out, “And you’re going to . . . probably not spare his life after breaking his legs?”
“Nae. I’ve not broken his legs yet. Just his hands and feet.”
I suck in a lung full of air. “Okay, I’ll try to have an open mind.”
“My clan’s good at keeping torture—”
I gag.