Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,143

did. Probably the bitch receptionist who’d told him to leave a message.

Still, the flowers would have been useful. He could have spotted her leaving the station from across the street. Also, the flower arrangement was so large that her vision would be impaired. She wouldn’t see him when he shot her.

What he hadn’t expected was to see Gideon Reynolds carrying the flowers from the station, as cocky and arrogant as he’d always been, even when he was a kid. And then Gideon Reynolds had thrown the flowers into the dumpster, vase and all.

He hadn’t expected his mind to flash back to the image of thirteen-year-old Gideon, covered in blood after shoving Edward McPhearson so hard that his head hit his own anvil. So hard that McPhearson had died.

And he hadn’t expected that image of Gideon’s face to morph into Waylon’s at the moment that DJ had smothered him to death with a pillow.

He definitely hadn’t expected the swell of rage that exploded inside him or the suppressed pop of the gunshot that followed. It was as if he’d been taken over, his actions not his own.

Gideon had staggered back against the dumpster, clutching at his chest, and DJ had felt that rage become a visceral jubilation.

He’d done it. He’d killed Gideon Reynolds. The fucker had finally paid.

But then the man had stood, chest heaving. Because he was still breathing.

Breathing. Gideon didn’t deserve to breathe. He needed to die. He’d needed to die seventeen years ago when he’d killed Edward McPhearson.

Just like DJ’s father had died for helping Gideon escape.

DJ remembered the look in Waylon’s eyes as he’d breathed his last.

The fear.

The guilt.

The acceptance.

Because Waylon had known that he deserved to die.

A sound cut through the storm in his mind, a wail, an animal howl. For a moment DJ wondered what it was that could make that sound. Until he realized.

It’s me. Shocked, DJ covered his mouth, his whole body shaking. His face was wet.

Shit. He was crying. Sobbing.

He hadn’t cried since the day he’d turned thirteen years old. Not since Edward McPhearson had welcomed him into the smithy as his newest apprentice. He’d been so proud of himself. Until Edward had . . .

DJ closed his eyes, hand still pressed tight to his mouth, muffling the cries that continued to spill from his throat.

It had hurt. God, how it had hurt.

And when he’d told Pastor, the bastard had smiled.

He’d smiled. And told DJ that he’d been honored by the love of a Founding Elder.

Love. There was no such thing as love.

DJ knew this, because he’d gone to his father, still bleeding. Still in shock, but believing that his father could fix this. That he’d help. That he’d make this right.

Waylon’s fists had clenched as DJ had haltingly told his father what Edward had done, every one of his father’s considerable muscles hardening as his body seemed prepared to rip someone up. But then Waylon had exhaled.

And told DJ that it was something to be accepted. That there wasn’t anything he could do. That Edward would tire of him and there would soon be another.

DJ had left his father’s house that night, never to return until four years later when he’d killed him. He’d gone back to Pastor’s house, because he’d had no other place to go.

And the next day he’d gone back to Edward. To work. Because he was Edward’s apprentice, and that was what apprentices did. They worked.

But work wasn’t all they did.

Waylon had been wrong. Edward hadn’t tired of him. Not until Gideon had turned thirteen, four long years later.

It was finally going to be over. There would be a new apprentice. DJ would be a blacksmith.

Edward would take Gideon to his bed. He’d said so. He’d said DJ was now “too old.” He’d even said that DJ could participate, if he wished.

DJ hadn’t wished that. But he had been happy that someone else was going to have to take it from Edward.

But that didn’t happen. Gideon had happened. Gideon hadn’t been raped, because he’d fought back.

Gideon had killed Edward. And he’d gotten away with it.

Because of DJ’s own piece-of-trash father. The howl clawing from his throat had subsided, leaving whimpers in its place.

He hadn’t understood when he’d witnessed Waylon in the bed of his truck, a steel claw gripped in his fist, hastily ripping at the face of a dark-haired kid. Only slivers of tattooed skin on his chest remained, tendons and bone mostly visible. The kid’s eyes were gone.

Now, seventeen years later, DJ understood why his