Chapter Fourteen
“Thanks,” Nick called out, tapping the side of the beat-up truck he’d hitched a ride in. The old man waved and pulled away from the curb, the one working taillight disappearing around the corner and fading into the dark of night.
He was here. No backing out now.
Crickets chirped. A few tree frogs croaked. The single streetlight on the corner flickered and hummed. The wind whipped through the pecan trees lining the fence of Pecan Valley Cemetery. Not that he was ready to acknowledge the fence—not yet. One thing at a time.
Sneaking out of Granddad and Mimi’s had been easy. Wait for the snoring. He knew which boards squeaked, which door stuck, and how long it would take him to walk back into town. He’d been prepared to walk all night if he had to. No one would mess with him. And, if they did, he had a sledgehammer and a serious case of repressed rage to help defend himself.
He got lucky with the ride.
Now he was here. Staring down at the duffel bag with his grandfather’s sledgehammer in it, a bottle of water, a flashlight, and a bottle of vodka. He wasn’t sure if the vodka was for before or after, but he was sure he was going to need it. Once he was face-to-face with Matthew Buchanan’s headstone, he’d know.
Screw it. He pulled the half-empty bottle from the bag and gulped, wincing and gagging until it was gone. “Fuck,” he spit out, throwing the bottle across the street to smash against the uneven asphalt.
He tucked the flashlight into his pocket and hefted the bag onto his back before walking the perimeter of the fence. When he found a tree sturdy enough to climb, he was up and over and in. He landed, the sledgehammer in the bag slamming into his back with enough force to knock
him breathless and onto his knees.
Cut grass, dirt, and musty flowers.
A cemetery.
He pushed himself up, dizzy and unsteady, and turned on his flashlight. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the dark, but it took him a hell of a lot longer to find his dad’s headstone than he’d anticipated. Long enough for him to feel buzzed.
Once he found it, he stood staring, gulping in air. His father wasn’t alone. Even in death, she was here. Right beside his dad.
Amber Strauss. Not Buchanan.
That was something, wasn’t it? He’d never married her.
Not that it made him feel better. Something about seeing Amber’s name on that stone only reminded him of everything she’d taken. His family. Happiness. His dad… It didn’t matter that she had no one else in the world. She didn’t deserve it, not after what she’d done.
He didn’t understand why.
“What did she have, Dad?” His voice was high and broken like a kid. A whiny, pathetic kid. He cleared his throat, refusing to look at her headstone—refusing to think about her. Not anymore. He balanced the flashlight there, the beam making the dirt black, like a hole. A massive, gaping, bottomless hole.
Nick stepped back, momentary panic setting in.
“Fuck you,” he ground out, stomping on the very solid dirt beneath his feet. He knelt, unzipping the duffel bag and pulling out the sledgehammer.
“You picked her.” His eyes burned. “You left us. You deserved to be unhappy.” He stood, wiping at the tears. “You deserved it.” He hefted the sledgehammer up and onto his shoulder, the tears making the words on the tombstone blur and dance. “You deserved this!” He screamed the words—and kept on screaming—as he swung the sledgehammer with all his weight. It landed hard, the impact radiating up his arms and into his chest, wrenching it free from his hands to fall on the ground.
The corner of the headstone was gone—no more than a chip—but a deep crack splintered down a good two inches into the marble.
And his heart twisted at the sight of it.
He wouldn’t cry. Not for his father. Never again. He wouldn’t remember the way his father laughed. Or how strong his hugs were. Or the scent of his cologne. Or how broad his shoulders had been, how many times he’d fallen asleep on one.
You can’t hurt me anymore. I won’t miss you.
He sniffed, a lump lodging in his throat.
“I hate you,” he ground out. “I hate what you did to us.” Because he couldn’t miss him—couldn’t love him. He wouldn’t.
When he’d fallen on his knees, Nick didn’t know. The dewy, freshly turned earth soaked through his jeans. Dirt from his father’s grave. He pushed away, crawling back to wipe it away, only vaguely aware that the ground beneath him was brighter now—the face of the broken headstone illuminated by something behind him.
I’m glad you’re dead. But he couldn’t get the words out, no matter how badly he wanted to mean them.