Branded (Fall of Angels #1)(65)

I nod, rubbing my lips, unsure of what to tell him and wondering if I can even trust anyone at this point.

Uncle Josiah narrows his eyes. “The Burrells … you think they did this?”

“Yes,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I know for sure.” I pull out the note Ben and Danny left for me and hand it to my uncle. “Look.”

His eyes glaze over it. “I see …” Then he hands it back to me as if it means little to him even though it means a lot to me.

“If Ben and Danny hadn’t found that Zippo from my papa’s shop on their farm, Papa would still be alive,” I say through gritted teeth while glaring at my own feet. I can’t look him in the eye right now and face what I’ve done like a goddamn man.

“Look at me, Brandon,” my uncle says, and I do. “If you’re sure they’re the ones who killed your papa, they will pay.”

He walks off into the bathroom, and I’m left staring at his back, wondering what he means by that.

“How?” I ask.

He fishes his cell phone from his pocket and starts calling some numbers without answering me. I remain seated on the bed and continue staring at the lighter, thinking about my actions over and over again. If I hadn’t gone to see Dixie, none of this would’ve happened. My papa would still be alive.

She saw me, and that implicates me. She knows I was the one who started that fire. And she’s the only one who knows that Zippo belongs to me.

Did she tell her dad? Her brothers?

Is that why they came for my papa? To get revenge for the burned down farmhouse?

The more I stare at the Zippo, the angrier I get.

This is all her doing.

There’s no other way. No one else knew I was there.

Fuck.

Fuck her.

Fuck the Burrells.

How dare they fucking go to my papa’s shop and murder him in cold blood? Does burning someone’s drugs equal taking a human life? Fuck them and the fucking horse they rode in on.

And fuck Dixie for being the sole reason my papa is dead. I fucking hate her to death.

I chuck the Zippo so hard it ricochets off the wall and ends up under the bed. Good fucking riddance.

“Don’t,” Uncle Josiah says after he’s come back from the bathroom, and he plucks the Zippo out from underneath. It’s covered in dust, which he blows off. “You don’t wanna leave evidence around everywhere.”

“Right,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.

“It’s okay. You’re a big man now. You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.” He pats my back and tucks the Zippo into my hands. “Now … let’s go.”

“Where?” I ask, as he opens the door.

“To the Burrells.” A dirty, wicked smile spreads across his lips. “We’ve got a score to settle.”





Chapter Thirty-One





Dixie



Present



His dad … was murdered?

By my brothers?

No, that can’t be true. It can’t be.

I shake my head. “No, that’s not possible.”

“Yes, it is, and you know it,” he growls, practically shaking. “Admit it, Dixie. Just fucking admit it.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head again. “It’s not possible.”

“Stop fucking lying!” he yells. “Always with the fucking lies. Enough is enough. Admit it’s your fucking fault that he died. You gave them the Zippo.”

But that’s just it.

I didn’t.

“I never gave that Zippo to anyone,” I say.

“Then how did it end up on the counter? Huh?” he yells.

“I didn’t give it to them! You have the wrong girl,” I say.

“Bullshit!” he spits.

“It’s the truth. Yes, I found that fucking Zippo of yours, but I kept it in a box in the shed. I never handed it over to anyone.”

“Your brothers must’ve gotten their hands on it then,” he barks.

“No, that’s impossible,” I say.

“They were at the shop, Dixie!” he shouts. “They fucking killed my papa with their own fucking hands.”

He’s so angry, I feel as though he’s going to punch a hole in the ground beside my head. I close my eyes as he lets his rage loose on the soil, roaring out loud.

“My papa is dead because of you!”

And even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I still feel guilty. Guilt he bestowed upon me the moment he decided I was to blame for his pain. That same pain I know all too well.

But my brothers are innocent.

“They didn’t do it,” I say.

“They did, and you know it. They knew my papa had those Zippos on his shelves, so they must’ve thought he set the farmhouse on fire. Except no one did. I didn’t even do it on purpose,” he says, taking a deep breath. “After you broke up with me, I needed a cig, so I lit one. And then I saw your brothers busy in that farmhouse. They caught me looking, so I ran. And then the fire broke out.”

“And you left your fucking Zippo,” I mutter.

“Which you found,” he fills in for me, flashing the Zippo again, holding it in front of both of us as if it’s some sort of final piece to the puzzle.