Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(68)

"I wasn't, I swear! Tom-"

"Dad," he says, very softly. "Address me properly."

"No," I snarl, "No! f*ck you! You're not my father and I hate you. You hear me? I hate you and I hate Lance and you're going to prison, you sick sadistic bastard! I know what you did."

"Stop," he says.

The cop pulls over. He steps out of the car. He closes the door.

"Explain 'I know what you did.'"

"You killed your wife."

He laughs. "Is that what you think?"

I blink a few times. God, the light still stings. My ears are never going to stop ringing. My skull feels like it split open and the pieces are moving around.

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't," he says.

"I'm not delusional and I'm not crazy."

"Everyone says that." He sighs. "Everybody who's crazy says they're not. You can't be crazy and know you're crazy, can you, after all? No, Alexis. After you spend some time resting and recuperating, you'll understand. My son, Howard, recognized how fragile you were and planted all these warped ideas in your mind in an attempt to seduce you and turn you against me. That's what happened."

"That's not true. You're a killer and criminal and a monster."

"That's your delusions talking. After you spend some time resting up in the hospital, you'll see the truth."

"No!” I scream, "No, you can't!"

He motions with his hand and the driver gets back in the car.

"Stop!" I scream at him. "Listen to me, he's going to put me in a psych ward! I'm not crazy, you have to listen to me. Please, officer. This is wrong. There's nothing wrong with me. Listen to me. I'm begging you please listen to me." My words melt into sobs, and hot tears sting my cheeks. "Don't let him do this to me. Please. Please. Please."

"Shut up," the cop says coldly.

I sink back into the seat, sobbing.

The world rolls by, pressing in against the glass, and every bitter memory floods back into my mind. I feel the restraints on my arms, feel the needle slide into my buttock, the heat as the chemicals flush into my flesh. I remember every iota of anger and resentment I felt for Hawk and each drop of it is a tiny core of hate, not for him, for me. I held anger for him in my heart, and now this has happened. Someone help me.

Don't let them kill him. They'll kill him this time. Please God don't let them kill him. Somebody help us.

Nobody answers me.

I go quiet, sobbing softly to myself, lying on the stinking seat that smells like dried perspiration and rotten soda and piss. I curl up in a ball and resign myself to the inevitable, a dark pit of agonized dread forming in my stomach, and sink into it. They killed him. Hawk is dead, he's dead, he's dead.

No he's not. I can feel it. I don't know how I can but I can feel it, he is not dead and he is going to come for me.

"Where's my sister?" I croak.

"That depends on how cooperative she is," Tom says. “Instability seems to run in your family. Fortunately, May wasn't present when you and Howard attacked my son." He says it as if Hawk isn't also his son. "If she's cooperative and understanding, I'll give her a chance. If not, well, there's room for one more in the rubber room. Not that you'll be seeing her again."

I can't stop myself, I start crying again, curl up in the seat and watch as we drive through Paradise Falls, all the way through town. The cars behind us peel off, some heading for the police station. I didn't see Hawk after they threw him on the ground. They could have blown his brains out right there and there would be nothing he could do about it. When the idea hits me, the image follows and my mind paints a vivid picture of his blood painted across the earth, fanned out on the soil and tall grass, and I can't help but scream and pound my feet on the floor.

"She’s crazy," the cop says in a droll voice.

Let me out, let me out.

They keep driving. Over the bridge, beyond. Onto the highway. People look at me. People in other cars. They see me with my running tears and red eyes, they see me scream through the glass and they just drive on like I'm not here. I'm locked up in the back of a cop car, I must deserve it. I lean my head on the glass and sob, and the car just keeps rolling.

By the time we finally stop, my arms are on fire, my shoulders raw knots of paint, my wrists scraped and bruised, my ankles throbbing. The cop gets out first and Tom follows, and there's men outside, orderlies in scrubs, big men and they have a gurney. As they come for me, I scoot to the other side of the car and curl up, try to push into the door and get away but it's no good. I kick with both feet and they just grab my ankles and yank me bodily out of the car.

"I'm not crazy!" I wail. "How can you do this? Somebody help!"

There are others here, other people. A couple walks into the front of the hospital, headed for the big slowly revolving doors, and they stop and look and shake their heads, heavy with pity, and keep walking. They think I'm nuts. They think I'm supposed to be here. It's happening again and I can't stop it, help me, help me, help me!

I'm up in the air and I flop face down on the gurney. The cuffs snap loose from my wrists and ankles and I try to scramble loose even if it means planting face first on the pavement, but it doesn't matter, they turn me over, five men hold me down and tighten leather cuffs around my arms and legs and pull nylon straps over my chest and hips and they tie me down to the gurney and roll me inside.