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Jared yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk and shoved the few precious tokens of what had been into his backpack, unsure why he couldn’t leave them behind, topped it with the cheap bottle of whiskey he’d snatched from his dad’s cabinet. He buried his stash in the front pocket under a crumpled-up shirt he grabbed from the floor.
Not like it fucking mattered. He wouldn’t be getting caught this time. He’d see it through. He’d pay, and never again would he have the chance to destroy the good.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Jared went to his window and parted the drapes. With his pulse pounding in his ears, he slowly slid it open. He cringed when it squeaked. He was supposed to be grounded. That was his father’s solution. Grounding. Jared had been arrested and expelled from school, and apparently that had been a just punishment.
Jared scoffed, his grip tightening on the frame of the window. God, his dad was clueless. Did he really think grounding him for a month and sending him to a new school was going to fix things? Really, he knew his dad didn’t want to deal with him or his shit.
Jared couldn’t blame him.
He’d ruined his life.
Night after night, Jared had lain and listened to his father weep, the sound resonating through the barren place that had once been their home. Courtney was gone. Two weeks after the funeral, she’d been sent to their grandparents’ because their father had lost the capacity to care for anything or anyone. It was only supposed to be temporary. Jared’s gut told him it was not. He just hoped she’d escaped this all, that his sister had been spared.
Jared’s father was only another life he had taken.
Jared quietly inched toward his door, inclined his ear to it and listened for his father. Anxiety crawled up his spine. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. A distant TV droned from the living room. The rest of the house echoed the cavernous void. Jared crossed his room to his window and pushed at the frame of the screen until it bent and gave. Holding his breath, he slipped over the sill and out into the night.
Crouched down, he ran across the yard, panting when he hit the garage wall of the Ramirezes’ two houses down. Jared peered through the small window. No lights shone, and their car was gone. For years he’d mowed their lawn, and just as many times he’d sat in their kitchen drinking from a glass of lemonade when Mrs. Ramirez would call him in to take a break from the sun. He also knew what they kept in the den.
Jared raked his hand through his hair as he pressed up against the wall, searching for courage. But there was no courage. There was only pain and the throbbing call of the debt he knew he had to pay.
Jared shoved off the wall, dropped his backpack to the ground, and jerked the shirt from the front pocket. He wrapped it haphazardly around his hand, pinching his eyes closed as he sucked in the stifling air. He slammed his fist into the small, square garage window.
Glass shattered. It crashed as it fell to the concrete floor.
“Shit,” he hissed quietly, jerking around to peer into the distant darkness. From down the street, a dog barked, but no one even seemed to stir or notice his presence.
Jared turned back to his task, wincing as he unwound the bloodied shirt from his hand. He softly groaned as he did his best to ignore the stinging ache. He didn’t have time to be distracted.
Jared knocked the rest of the jagged pieces of window glass free with this elbow. The few remaining clattered to the floor. He gathered his bag from the ground and tossed it inside. Grunting, he wedged himself through the narrow hole.
Inside, the garage was dark. Only the dimmest moonlight spilled in through the window that had given him entry. He plucked his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, making his way inside the house. A dull overhead light illuminated the kitchen, and Jared quickly crossed through and down the hall.
He knew exactly where he was going.
He flicked on the light in the den. Two worn recliners faced an old television set, and family pictures lined the walls. Jared trained his attention on his goal because he couldn’t look at all those faces smiling, all that family and joy. Not when he’d destroyed his.
Against the far wall was an antique gun cabinet. The solid wood was polished and detailed, the glass panes etched. Housed inside were Mr. Ramirez’s guns, two rifles, a shotgun, and a large handgun. He’d shown Jared once, told him the story behind each one.
Fear slicked like ice just under Jared’s skin, and his heart beat erratically as he stared at them. It didn’t matter that he was scared. His mom had been scared, too. He’d seen it. Felt it.
Jared inched forward and turned the old rustic lock. It clicked and gave way, the doors yielding to the call. Jared took the handgun from its case. It was so heavy and cold. He swallowed hard before he rummaged around and found the right bullets, held his breath as he loaded it. He shoved it in the front pocket of his backpack.
Jared was heading back through the kitchen when he heard the garage whine shut and the slam of a car door. He froze. He clutched his bag to his chest, his eyes darting around the room, looking for an escape.
Five seconds later, the door he’d come in through opened. Joe Ramirez gasped, his feet faltering below him.
“Jared?” he said more in shock than in question. He blinked away his stupor. “What are you doing in here?”
Jared fumbled in the front pocket of his backpack and brought out the gun. He pointed it at him.
What am I doing… what am I doing… what am I doing? Jared chanted in his head. Sickness swirled in his gut, pressure building in his head.
“Come, now, Jared. Give me the gun.” The old man watched him with outright sympathy and a twinge of fear. “I know you don’t want to do this. I know you.”
Harshly, Jared shook his head, unwilling to listen to what Joe said, the gun trembling as he held it out in front of him. “Just… just sit down in that chair.” Jared’s tongue darted out to wet his dry, cracked lips, that void in his veins screaming out to be filled.
“Jared… ” Joe took a step forward, a placating hand stretched out in front of him as if it could do something to mollify the anxiety twisting Jared in two.
“Sit!” Jared shouted, his own voice something he didn’t recognize.
Joe nodded slowly and shuffled over to the kitchen chair with his hands held up in surrender. He sat down, eyeing Jared with the pity he hated. The man’s movements were deliberate as he clasped his hands on his lap. “You don’t have to do this, Jared.”
But he did. He had to, even though involving someone else was never supposed to be a part of it. Jared hated scaring this man who’d only ever been kind to him. He’d just been left without a choice.
Keeping the gun pointed in Joe’s direction, Jared frantically ransacked the drawers in the kitchen, leaving them hanging wide open when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He groaned in relief when he finally did. The large drawer was crammed full of junk, pens and coupons and random crap. And a small twine of rope.
Jared crossed to the man and edged behind the chair. “Give me your hands.”
Joe hesitated.
“Do it!” Jared yelled, nudging him in the side with the barrel of the gun.
The old man gave in and dropped his arms to his sides. Jared crouched down low and balanced the gun on his thighs. His breaths came all shallow and severe as he began to wrap the rope around Joe’s wrists, securing them tight at the base of the chair.
“Jared, please don’t do this,” he begged.
Sweat beaded on Jared’s upper lip. He swiped the back of his hand over it. He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog clouding his mind. He cinched the rope and Joe yelped.
Shit.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jared promised through his agony, fucking hating every second of what he was doing. But there was nothing else he could do.