Steeling my resolve, I open the car door and get out. The house remains quiet, undisturbed. I didn’t exactly expect a welcoming party, but I’ve been gone all night and most of the day after telling Gunter we’re through. I kind of thought I’d at least have to face him storming down the stairs to greet me when he heard my car.

As I make my way to the front door, I remind myself of the good in this situation; I get to see Tommy. Each time my determination wavered on the drive back here, it was the thought of him that pushed me on. Knowing I’d get to see how my little brother is doing kept my foot firmly on the gas, and my heart out of the decision, because if the ache in my chest had anything to say about this idea, I’d be jumping back in that car and laying rubber as I headed toward Lincoln all over again.

But what would that achieve? I started this by choosing to stay with the family after Hank brought me home, and I chose to keep it going by playing the role of adoring girlfriend, fooling not only Gunter, but myself that it was what I needed to do to find out the truth about my past. The real truth is that lying close with these thugs didn’t give me a snowball’s chance in hell of ever finding out why Harris disrupted my life like that. The real truth is that I had merely found a place where I was comfortable, where I could lie low and get by without having to think about a thing. I was provided for, and I was doted on by a man with a black heart yet the purest of intentions, and I allowed it. I welcomed that life with open arms, because it was easy. It was easier than facing the facts, facing who I’d become—weak and alone. I lied to them, but worst of all, I lied to me.

And now I’m paying the price.

I push the front door wide and walk right on in to the final act in this fucked up stage show called life.

Gunter’s seated in the armchair by the false fire, his head in his hands. Eddie is visible through the doors to the yard, smoking in the company of the only two men he trusts implicitly: Easy, and Taylor. The scene is morose, quiet, and far too fucking miserable for my liking.

“Well, look who decided to fucking show her face,” Gunter sneers. “Welcome home, precious.”

I mentally shake off the chill his tone gives me, and step toward where Gunter sits. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Are you?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

I nod, gripping the hem of my T-shirt to save my hands from shaking. “I panicked. I got scared seeing Tommy like that. What if it had been you?”

He scoffs. My chances are slim. “So you break it off?” He steels his jaw, a thick vein making an appearance in his neck. “You thought you’d fucking leave?”

Tears, Ryan. He needs tears to believe this. I think of everything that’s hurt me: Mom and Dad’s death, Harris leaving me behind, Tommy being shot, and push out the evidence of my sadness. “Because I thought about what it would feel like to lose you, and I got scared. I thought it would be better to leave you than lose you.”

His eyebrows pinch, relax, and then pinch again as he takes in my tears. “You’re lying.”

“No,” I whine, stepping toward him, feeling my bile revolt against my lies. “It would kill me to lose you.”

For a fleeting moment, I have him. His eyes soften, his face falls, and I can see the finish line. And then the racehorse spooks. His brow furrows and his nostrils flare. “Save it, you lying slut.”

“Excuse me?” I feign shock, playing this damn role until the very last.

“Where you been, Ryan?”

“I just drove until I needed fuel. I needed time to come to terms with what happened to Tommy.” Why haven’t I seen Tommy yet? “Where is he?”

Gunter catapults himself out of the chair and marches straight for me. I back up, my instinct to preserve myself kicking in, and find the edge of the hallway wall.

“Where is he? He’s laid up in bed trying not to fucking die, Ryan.” Gunter swallows hard. “He woke up, spoke to me, and then two hours ago the asshole went to sleep and got a fucking fever.” Tears well in Gunter’s eyes, but the expression on his face is one of pure anger, and simmering dangerously close to boiling point. “Things don’t look good.”

“He spoke?” I whisper, my chin quaking.

“You’d fucking know already if you checked your messages.” My damn phone. “Where the fuck did you stay last night, Ryan?” he asks, his eyes red. But the color isn’t from tears, or lack of sleep. It’s chemically induced. He’s high as a fucking kite on something. Fucking Eddie.

“I stayed at a motel,” I mumble. Tommy woke up, and I wasn’t here to talk with him, say a final goodbye.

“You’ve never been a good liar.” Haven’t I? “Who is he, bitch.” His tone is low and menacing. I pat down the wall, looking for something within reach I can use to defend myself if necessary.

“There’s no-one, Gunter.” I start to cry for real; more out of frustration than fear.

“Why do you keep lying to me?” he roars, placing his hands on his head. “Fuck, Ryan. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but stop fucking treating me like a retard.” He slams a hand beside my head and boxes me in. “Tell me who he is.” Gunter drops his head, chuckling. “I don’t even know why I’m playing this game. I know the guy’s been after you since he first fucking showed his face.”

“Who?” My head is swimming, and I’m certain I’m going to pass out from the stress on my heart.

“Bronson.”

I try. I try fucking hard. But the pressure behind my eyes tells me my pupils have given it all away.

Gunter sneers at his hollow victory. “Knew it.” The rage builds, the vein in his neck pulsing, and the red of his eyes growing with each heaving breath he pulls.

I sweat under his scrutiny—literally.

“Fuck you, Ryan.” Gunter rears his hand back, slamming it into the plaster beside my head. “Fuck. You.” He punches the wall again and again, trapping me with his huge body as the plaster dust rains down over me.

I cry out, shielding my face with my hands. Why the fuck did I think I could do this?

The destruction stops, Gunter’s heaving breath the only sound. I peek out from behind my hands and promptly squeal. Eddie’s aged and pale face stares at me, his eyes tracking my every movement. I didn’t hear him come in.

“Ryan, love,” Eddie greets me with the smile of a fox that’s found a cornered chicken. “We were worried about you.”

“Funny way Gunter has of showing it,” I say, pointing to the destroyed section of wall beside my head with a shaky finger.

Eddie smiles. “What else would you expect? You upset my boy.”

“Yeah? For the last three years you’ve been around us you’ve seen him repeatedly upset me, but you never gave a fuck about that.”

His face falls, his eyes darkening as he takes a single step toward me. The loss of distance is crushing. Every ounce of his hate is amplified tenfold through the single movement. “Nobody likes a crass mouth on a pretty face,” he warns me. “’Ave you forgotten what your place is, woman?”

“I think you lot have made my place abundantly clear over the years,” I tell him. I’m fucking holding the knife to my own throat, but the floodgates have been opened. He’s oppressed me for too long, and all that pent-up frustration needs an out. “Ever occur to you that any woman with half an ounce of self-respect would be a fucking idiot to put up with this shit forever?”

He chuckles, sending a chill skittering over my flesh. “I don’t need a girl who has self-respect. I just need a pretty face to distract the bastards I need to deal with day to day, a pretty face who knows to keep her fuckin’ trap shut, and who knows when she’s expected to lay down with those long legs wide open for the takin’.” He jams his knee between mine, knocking my stance wide. “You ain’t here because I respect that brain of yours, sweetheart—you’re here because your sweet little cunt is the only thing that keeps my rabid dog here docile.” He thumbs over his shoulder to Gunter who’s casually leaning on the arm of the sofa, watching our exchange, as though he didn’t just go hulk on the wall. “And here’s the kicker, baby-cakes.” Eddie chuckles to himself, making a quarter-turn away from me before spinning around and stepping right into my space, his nose near touching mine. “Nobody gives a fuck if you’re a rocket scientist or a dribblin’ vegetable as long as you’re in working order down here.” His rough hand cups the denim between my legs, squeezing hard.