The fury in Dad is unlike Locke’s and unlike Mayhem’s. Locke’s anger is cold and concentrated, Mayhem’s is wild, looking for somewhere to land. Dad’s is older than both, disciplined by years of leadership, shaped into something precise enough to become action.
He walks toward me slowly. His gaze drops to my arm, the mark, the proof. Then rises to my face.
“What exactly happened, sweetheart?”
So I tell them, I tell them all of it:
The garage. Knox stepping out between the cars. The way he looked at the shopping bags. The questions about Locke. The accusation in his voice when he realized I was happy. The grip on my arm. The things he said about control.
Locke keeps one hand at the small of my back while I speak, warm and steady, but the rest of him grows colder with every sentence. Jad
