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Authors: Katherine Stone
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knows it. I’ve made sure of it. Everyone feels sorry for
me and admires me for not sending you away. You see the problem, don’t you?
Nothing you say would be believed. Whereas every word I speak is gold.”
Luke knew he wouldn’t escape violence on this night. It was
what Jared wanted and what Jared would have.
Jared was goading him to make the first move. Luke had never
risen to the bait. Always before, his sole focus had been on surviving what was
to come.
But Jared had never before goaded him with what he cared
about most in the world. Snow. And, never before, had Luke felt he had nothing
more to lose.
Even if he had been sober on this final night in Quail Ridge,
Luke might have lunged at Jared—and seen, too late, Jared’s knife.
Luke believed Jared would kill him. But after slash upon
slash drew blood without plunging to a life-threatening depth, he began to
understand that this was a new game for Jared, a foreshadowing of the way he
planned to keep their fights as unfair as they had always been.
The fight moved up the stairs to Luke’s bedroom.
The room itself afforded neither sanctuary nor privacy for
Jared’s son. Its only lock was on the outside. And the nailed-shut windows
above the glass-filled pool offered no escape.
Luke slammed the door he couldn’t lock and waited for Jared
to throw the dead bolt, trapping him inside, or follow him into the room.
Jared did neither. Laughing, he retreated down the stairs.
The knife was new. The alcohol—for Luke—was new. But the
chase to Luke’s bedroom and Jared’s laughing withdrawal weren’t.
The night’s violence might be over, or it might not.
Luke could only wait . . . and plot his father’s murder.
He had contemplated it often, a soothing antidote on nights
like this. He could do it, he would tell himself. The power was his.
Deciding not to murder Jared was a choice. The choice, always
before, that Luke made.
But now, as he was planning to leave Quail Ridge and Jared was
threatening to destroy the only world Snow had ever known, a different choice
felt clear—even though Luke didn’t know, could never know, if Jared would make
good on his threats against Snow once he was gone.
Would Jared miss having an innocent victim for his games and
decide to befriend Snow instead? If so, he could befriend her. He was
that charming. He didn’t blame her for disliking him, he would tell her. Or for
distrusting him. He deserved it. He hated himself, too. But he loved Luke, he really
did, and if she would help him find his vanished son, he would spend the rest
of his life proving to Luke how sorry he was.
Luke had to kill Jared. It was the only way Snow would be
safe. He wouldn’t kill and run, either. He would admit to the murder and offer
no excuses.
I did it , he would confess to the cops who were Jared’s
friends. Lock me in prison and throw away the key.
Killing Jared would be worth any punishment. But the act of
killing scared him. He had spent his life trying not to be his father’s son.
But that was who he was. The monster’s son. He would rid the
world of that monster—but how?
Luke tried to visualize it.
The images wouldn’t come.
Coward ,
he goaded himself, as Jared would have, to no avail. There was another voice in
his head, Snow’s voice, knowing he wasn’t a coward . . . and knowing, too, that
he could never kill.
A sound outside his door signaled Jared’s return. As he
waited for the door to open, Luke prepared himself for the invasion.
But Jared was throwing the dead bolt, not turning the knob,
and liquid was seeping in, flooding in.
Scotch? No, Luke realized as he inhaled the scent—and tasted
the fumes.
Jared was pouring gasoline under the door.
A puddle.
A pond.
A lake of flames.
Beyond the locked door, his father laughed.
Then swore.
Then, with a shout followed by a crash, Jared Kilcannon was
silent.
Luke’s bedroom wasn’t silent. The inferno was noisy. The
flames crackled as they chased him toward
me and admires me for not sending you away. You see the problem, don’t you?
Nothing you say would be believed. Whereas every word I speak is gold.”
Luke knew he wouldn’t escape violence on this night. It was
what Jared wanted and what Jared would have.
Jared was goading him to make the first move. Luke had never
risen to the bait. Always before, his sole focus had been on surviving what was
to come.
But Jared had never before goaded him with what he cared
about most in the world. Snow. And, never before, had Luke felt he had nothing
more to lose.
Even if he had been sober on this final night in Quail Ridge,
Luke might have lunged at Jared—and seen, too late, Jared’s knife.
Luke believed Jared would kill him. But after slash upon
slash drew blood without plunging to a life-threatening depth, he began to
understand that this was a new game for Jared, a foreshadowing of the way he
planned to keep their fights as unfair as they had always been.
The fight moved up the stairs to Luke’s bedroom.
The room itself afforded neither sanctuary nor privacy for
Jared’s son. Its only lock was on the outside. And the nailed-shut windows
above the glass-filled pool offered no escape.
Luke slammed the door he couldn’t lock and waited for Jared
to throw the dead bolt, trapping him inside, or follow him into the room.
Jared did neither. Laughing, he retreated down the stairs.
The knife was new. The alcohol—for Luke—was new. But the
chase to Luke’s bedroom and Jared’s laughing withdrawal weren’t.
The night’s violence might be over, or it might not.
Luke could only wait . . . and plot his father’s murder.
He had contemplated it often, a soothing antidote on nights
like this. He could do it, he would tell himself. The power was his.
Deciding not to murder Jared was a choice. The choice, always
before, that Luke made.
But now, as he was planning to leave Quail Ridge and Jared was
threatening to destroy the only world Snow had ever known, a different choice
felt clear—even though Luke didn’t know, could never know, if Jared would make
good on his threats against Snow once he was gone.
Would Jared miss having an innocent victim for his games and
decide to befriend Snow instead? If so, he could befriend her. He was
that charming. He didn’t blame her for disliking him, he would tell her. Or for
distrusting him. He deserved it. He hated himself, too. But he loved Luke, he really
did, and if she would help him find his vanished son, he would spend the rest
of his life proving to Luke how sorry he was.
Luke had to kill Jared. It was the only way Snow would be
safe. He wouldn’t kill and run, either. He would admit to the murder and offer
no excuses.
I did it , he would confess to the cops who were Jared’s
friends. Lock me in prison and throw away the key.
Killing Jared would be worth any punishment. But the act of
killing scared him. He had spent his life trying not to be his father’s son.
But that was who he was. The monster’s son. He would rid the
world of that monster—but how?
Luke tried to visualize it.
The images wouldn’t come.
Coward ,
he goaded himself, as Jared would have, to no avail. There was another voice in
his head, Snow’s voice, knowing he wasn’t a coward . . . and knowing, too, that
he could never kill.
A sound outside his door signaled Jared’s return. As he
waited for the door to open, Luke prepared himself for the invasion.
But Jared was throwing the dead bolt, not turning the knob,
and liquid was seeping in, flooding in.
Scotch? No, Luke realized as he inhaled the scent—and tasted
the fumes.
Jared was pouring gasoline under the door.
A puddle.
A pond.
A lake of flames.
Beyond the locked door, his father laughed.
Then swore.
Then, with a shout followed by a crash, Jared Kilcannon was
silent.
Luke’s bedroom wasn’t silent. The inferno was noisy. The
flames crackled as they chased him toward
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