Cyclops.
Lauren’s brother, the one Matthew had banned from his house because he ran with cartels. He wore a tank top that showed off a black scorpion tattoo crawling from his bicep up his neck. A thick gold chain hung at his chest. He cleaned his fingernails with Matthew’s fruit knife like it was a joke, like he owned everything in that room.
My jaw clenched so hard I felt pain.
Where was my son?
I stepped back into the dark, mind racing. I needed to see Lauren. I needed to hear her say his name in a way that wasn’t a lie. I smoothed my jacket, made sure the knife wasn’t visible, and rang the doorbell.
The music died abruptly.
Whispered voices. Heavy footsteps.
“Who is it?” a hoarse male voice growled, irritated. “I said no visitors.”
“Let me check,” Lauren answered, trying to sound normal. “Probably the pizza.”
The door opened a crack.
Lauren stood there in a thin nightgown with a sweater thrown over it, hair messy, makeup heavy. The makeup couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. When she saw me, every trace of color drained from her face as if someone had pulled a plug.
“William,” she whispered, barely audible.
“Hello, daughter,” I said, keeping my voice calm. Calm is armor. “I’m here to see my son.”
Her eyes were wide, frightened. “Dad, why did you come? We told you. We’re at the airport. Matthew is sleeping. He’s very tired.”
The lies tumbled out clumsily, contradicting each other. She was so scared she couldn’t even keep her story straight.
Cyclops appeared behind her, beer bottle in hand, face red with drink and arrogance. He looked me up and down like I was dirt on his boots.
“Who is it, sis?” he said, then grinned. “Ah. The old rancher.”
He stepped forward, blowing alcohol fumes into my face. “Wrong house, old man. Nobody buys vegetables here. Get out.”
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