Chapter 9
Emily's POV
I took a step back—instinctive, genuine fear mixing with calculated performance. "I thought—I thought you knew? I thought you told him he could—"
"I DIDN'T TELL HIM SHIT." My father's voice exploded through the apartment, loud enough that I flinched despite expecting it. "Where is she? When did this happen?"
"This morning. He came by early, said you'd made arrangements, that he was taking her somewhere." I let my voice tremble, let confusion and fear show on my face. "I tried to stop him but you always said I shouldn't question you, that you're the head of this family, so I thought—"
"You thought WHAT?" He was moving toward me now, and I had to force myself not to run, to hold my ground even as every instinct screamed at me to flee. "You just let him take her? You didn't think to wake me up?"
"I was scared!" The words came out in a rush, tears pricking at my eyes—real tears born of genuine terror at having him this close, this angry, but useful for selling the lie. "You always get so mad when I wake you up, and he said you'd arranged it, and I didn't want to make you angry again, I didn't want—"
I broke off, wrapping my arms around myself, making myself small and frightened and exactly what he expected to see when he looked at me. His breathing was harsh, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was imagining them around Marvin's throat. Or mine.
"Where did he take her?"
"I don't know. His place, maybe? He didn't say exactly." I paused, then added the words that would seal it, that would transform his anger into the kind of murderous rage that couldn't be controlled or reasoned with. "But I heard him on the phone. Talking to someone about Mom. About how this time he wanted to try something different. More fun, he said. That's why they couldn't do it here."
I watched the implications sink in. Watched his face go from red to purple, the vein in his temple pulsing visibly. I made myself continue, made my voice soft and placating, the perfect imitation of a daughter trying to make peace.
"I don't want to fight with you anymore, Dad. You were right—you're the head of this family. I shouldn't have questioned you. I shouldn't have tried to get between you and your decisions." I forced myself to meet his eyes, to look earnest and submissive. "If you needed to make arrangements with Uncle Marvin, if you needed the money, that's okay. I understand. We can make this work. We can be a family again, right? I'll stop causing problems. I'll do whatever you say."
The pause stretched out, his breathing harsh and ragged. For a moment I thought maybe I'd miscalculated, maybe the submission angle had defused his rage instead of redirecting it. Then his eyes narrowed, focusing on the specific words I'd used.
"What money?"
I blinked, widening my eyes like I'd said something wrong. "I just assumed—Uncle Marvin said something about making it worth your while. About this being a bigger payday than usual. I thought that's why you agreed to let him—" I trailed off, biting my lip. "Was I not supposed to know about that part?"
His face did something complicated, rage and humiliation and masculine pride all colliding at once. Because I'd just implied that he'd sold his wife, that he'd pimped her out for money, and worse—that everyone knew it, that Marvin was bragging about it, that his daughter was standing here calmly discussing the transaction like it was normal family business.
"I didn't agree to SHIT." Each word was bitten off, precise despite his fury. He spun away from me, grabbed his jacket from where it hung by the door. "Stay here. Don't fucking move."
"Where are you going?" I made my voice small, confused, worried.
"To get your mother back." He was shoving his arms into the jacket, patting his pockets for keys, his entire body vibrating with rage. "And to teach Marvin Locke what happens when you steal from Jack Gray."
He slammed out of the apartment without another word, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. I stood frozen in the kitchen, listening to the sound of his truck engine starting, the squeal of tires as he peeled out of the parking lot, and felt absolutely nothing.
No guilt. No fear. No second thoughts.
Just a cold, clinical satisfaction that phase two was complete.
I walked to the window and watched his truck disappear around the corner, heading toward Marvin's place three blocks away. In my mind, I could see exactly how it would play out. Dad pounding on the door. Marvin answering. Dad's accusation. Marvin's provocation. The first punch—would it be Dad's or Marvin's? Did it even matter? One way or another, violence would erupt. One way or another, someone would end up dead or dying.
And I would have made it happen without ever raising my own hand.
This is murder, a small voice whispered in the back of my mind. You know that, right? You manipulated him into this. You lied. You sent him there knowing what would happen.
I crushed the voice. This wasn't murder. This was survival. This was protecting Mom from a man who would eventually kill her.
There was no choice. There had never been a choice.
I turned away from the window and went back to washing dishes, the water running cold now, my hands moving mechanically through the familiar motions. Somewhere across town, Mom was probably standing in the grocery store trying to decide between brands of bread, carefully counting change, unaware that I'd just set her free. Somewhere three blocks away, my father was about to get himself killed.
The apartment was quiet except for the running water and the tick of the kitchen clock. I dried my hands, checked the time.
Dad and Marvin were probably already shouting at each other by now, maybe already fighting. It wouldn't take long. Violence never did in my world.