Razed (Barnes Brothers #2)(73)

The next ten images, all captured so fast, were of the girl, as that guy who’d pinned another girl against a locker took this one’s book from her and stood around with his friends. The images were so lifelike, so real, Keelie could all but hear the mocking words coming from his mouth.

Yeah, Price! That’s . . .

No, stop! Help!

The memories intermingled and tried to overwhelm. She shoved them back as she focused on the pictures, watched as the girl tried to grab her book. The mocking sneer of a smile on his face made him think of things she never wanted to remember, but couldn’t forget.

You know how this sort of thing can happen. Boys will be boys. It just got out of control.

The final images showed her trying to get the book back, and that evil little son of a bitch tearing it in half.

The last picture was the girl walking away in tears.

There was another set, a boy in what looked to be a gym locker room—his tormentor was another guy. The victim was a skinny black boy, braces on his teeth, and something about him made her think he’d bump into a wall, drop his books. He just looked . . . her heart ached. He looked like the type of kid people just picked on.

There were only three images of him. Him by his locker, and then four guys bearing down on him.

As two hands came up to grab him, another shoved the locker open wide.

Do it, man, do it!

She shoved the laptop away and surged upright, her head pounding so hard, she thought it was going to explode.

“I can’t look at these.”

Those kids, treated like things.

Boys will be boys . . .

And Zane . . .

Spinning, she stared at him where he sat, legs stretched out.

“Why didn’t you stop them? You just stood there, snapping pictures. Why didn’t you help?” Guilt, helplessness, fury, they all beat and roared inside her. “You just stand there taking pictures?”

His lids closed, a bitter smile on his lips. Then he opened his eyes and tapped at something on the computer. He turned to face her and placed it on the floor, rising to his feet.

“I don’t want to see any more,” she bit off.

Katie, let me handle this . . .

She shoved a hand against her temple, tried to shove the voices out, the memories.

“You should look.” He was standing back where he’d been earlier, studying the ceiling as though they hadn’t just witnessed some of the most casual cruelty imaginable. “You’re the only one who is likely to ever see those pictures, other than me.”

Curling her lip, she stormed back over to the computer, flinging herself to the floor with enough force that she jarred her bones. She didn’t care. That minor pain was good. It distracted her from the pain, the misery . . . the guilt.

Why hadn’t he done something?

Why didn’t you . . .

How could Zane had have just—

Her blood froze.

The boy stood in front of a mirror. He held the camera up over his shoulder, angling it at his back. It might have seemed odd, but the outline of what looked like a shoe solved the puzzle very well.

The next picture had him facing forward. His nose was swollen. One eye was black.

He was young, probably twelve years old.

But she knew exactly who he was. Those blue green eyes hadn’t changed.

Sucking in a breath, she moved to the next one. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but some had. His hair was longer, his shoulders looked a little wider. This time, the picture was fuzzier but the focus of it was a gash, right behind his ear.

She rubbed her fingers together. She’d felt that scar.

Another picture—another black eye. He was older now, maybe by a year or two, and the look in his eyes was angrier.

Picture after picture after picture. Twenty in all, following him up until he was probably sixteen, and that set of images was both the worst, and somehow . . . the easiest. Because the boy in front of the mirror had a smile on his face. Not a happy smile, but the kind of smile you’d see on the face of a man who’d emerged from the lion’s den.

Two pictures, one of each hand, showed bloody, busted knuckles.

Another of his face—his lip split, left eye black.

There were bruises on his ribs and she swallowed in horror at the red ring on his neck—she knew what that was from, somebody grabbing you by the throat and squeezing.

Shaken, she put it down.

Her hands were so slippery with sweat, they left damp tracks on the surface of it. She slicked them against her jeans as she rose. He still stood with his back to her.

“What the f*ck was that?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

Striding up to him, she shoved him, planting her hands on his lean back and putting all her strength into it.

He stumbled, caught himself and turned.

She lifted her hands to push him again, her blood roaring in her ears as emotions she couldn’t even begin to process ripped through her.

“What the f*ck was that?” she demanded again.

He caught her wrists, eased them down.

“That was me,” he said, shrugging, his voice easy, casual. Like he was discussing the weather.

Tears clogged her throat and she swallowed them down, along with the furious snarl that tried to come out. “Yeah. I got that—looks like you were always pretty, even when somebody was beating the hell out of you. Who did that to you?”