Branded (Fall of Angels #1)(64)

Uncle Josiah said he’d come right away, but I told him I was going back to the motel. I didn’t explain but told him where the motel was and what room he could find me in. Then I hung up.

Afterward, I called 911 using Papa’s cell phone and told them I found a dead body. I didn’t say my name because I didn’t want them to ask questions. I knew they were already looking for me to bring me in for questioning, considering what I did to Derek.

After I’m finish the call, I leave the premises. I don’t stick around near the shop. It’s hard to leave my papa there all alone, but I don’t want to get caught near his dead body either. It’s too much of a risk.

With a pang in my stomach, I hop into my truck and drive off.

I can’t get the image of my papa out of my mind.

How he laid there with his eyes wide open, pupils dilated, the agony marred onto his face.

The bloody wounds on his arms and the bruises all over his body.

That gaping hole in his stomach.

It’s too much to take. Too many vivid images in my head spiraling out of control.

I’m never going back there again. Ever.

That’s a promise I’m making to myself right now.

I don’t need a reminder of the horrible misery that happened there. And I don’t need a reminder of how much it’s my fault.

Because it is … completely … my fault.

My papa died because of me.

Because I dropped my lighter at that goddamn farmhouse at the Burrell’s. Because I set fire to their precious plants, and they decided to get revenge by murdering the only person who mattered to me.

My papa is gone because I made the foolish mistake of actually going to see Dixie instead of running off like I was supposed to.

Fucking stupid mistakes are all I ever make.

I bang my hands against the steering wheel, yelling, “FUCK!” multiple times.

It doesn’t lessen the pain.

The only one thing that does is the pendant hanging around my neck. It’s the only tangible memory I have left of him and my ma.

All they ever did was love me, and what did I do in return?

I hurt them. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Because they’re both gone, one of them because of my wrongdoings.

Because of the Burrells.

Fuck.

I pace around in my motel room until Uncle Josiah arrives. The triple knock on the door is all I need to know it’s him.

When I open the door, he barges in and slams it shut. Then he grabs my shoulders, and says, “Did anyone see you come here?” His voice is erratic, and it’s scaring me.

“No.” My gaze fixates on him, but he’s storming around the room, hastily checking things.

“You’re a hundred percent sure?”

He closes the windows and shuts the drapes. Now we’re cooped up in a small, dark room with no ventilation and no lights.

“I’m sure. Why? What’s going on?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

Why do I get the feeling that’s a lie?

“Who are you trying to protect us from?” I ask as he walks past me to close the window in the bathroom too. It’s as if he doesn’t even see me here. “Josiah, answer me!”

My outburst is enough to bring him back. He places his hands on my shoulders. “We don’t want the cops to come lookin’, now do we?”

“But—”

“You haven’t contacted them, have you?” he interrupts.

“I called 911,” I say, swallowing as his stern eyes look down upon me. “Papa … Papa said that’s what I was supposed to do.” Just thinking about him makes my throat clamp up.

Uncle Josiah nods. “Did you tell them who you were?”

“No. I only gave them the address and left.”

“Good.” He nods a few more times.

“I thought they’d see me as a suspect, so that’s why I ran. I know it was dishonorable of me to leave Papa there, but—”

“You did good,” Uncle Josiah interjects. “Now tell me what happened.”

“I … found Papa lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood,” I mutter, shivering when I’m reminded of the scene.

Uncle Josiah takes me to the bed and sits me down. “What type of wound?”

“Gunshot. For sure,” I reply, and I immediately grab my stomach as if I was the one who got shot.

“Anything else?”

“Some bruises.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the sick rise again. “He was pretty beaten up.”

“Did they take anything? Whoever it was,” he asks.

“Not that I could tell. It was just … ransacked. And there was a—” I swallow away the lump in my throat. “The Zippo.”

“What about it?”

I hold it up in my hand and glare at it. I wanna crush this thing with my bare hands. Set it on fire and melt away with it. “This … this was there, on the counter.” I hand the lighter over to him. “But I’ve… seen it before on the ground at the Burrell farm when I went to visit the other day,” I lie.

I hesitate to tell my uncle the truth. I can’t face my own guilt.

He takes a good look at the Zippo. “This is one of your papa’s Zippos, isn’t it?”