Walk the Edge

We smack hands, I take a fast swig from the longneck, then dump the nearly full beer into the trash. Everyone watches and half of me expects a muttered comment of “dead man walking,” but they keep their mouths shut. The shit I’m in is too deep for a smart-ass comment.

Dad’s already gone by the time I reach the door, so I head up the stairs. As the sergeant at arms, it’s Dad’s job to call people into the boardroom. It’s also his job to kick people out. Wonder how this evening will end.

I walk in and the chairs at the long mahogany table are filled. As president, Cyrus owns the head. He’s got a long beard and ponytail to match. He’s a bear of a man. I love him like a grandfather but have enough healthy fear to keep my distance when he’s pissed.

Cyrus’s son Eli sits on his right. The way Eli examines me gives the impression he’s about to yank his gun out of his holster, unload a clip into me, and will happily spend a few more years in prison over it. He tugs at the plugs in his ears and his gaze falls over to my father.

Dad drops into his seat next to Oz’s dad. There’s no seat for me, which is fine. I prefer to stand while being fired at. “I didn’t engage.”

But I would have and they know it.

“You messed up,” Eli states. “But the good news is you didn’t actually come face-to-face with them, so we’re going to call that one straight.”

Interesting. Last time I disobeyed a decree from the club’s bylaws, I was fined a hundred bucks and I had to clean bathrooms with the prospects for a month.

Eli stands and motions to his empty chair. “Take a seat.”

My eyes find Dad’s and he nods to confirm it’s cool. I move slowly to the table, waiting for a trapdoor to fly open beneath my feet. As I sit, Eli draws a folding chair up to the other side of Cyrus and straddles it directly across from me.

Cyrus may have been voted in by the members as president, but everyone knows that Eli is the chief of this tribe. Not because that’s how he wants it, it’s because every man who wears a Terror cut respects the hell out of him. But because of Eli’s stint in prison, he can’t hold an official office. “What went down with you and the detective?”

I could do a play-by-play, but talking that much to anyone isn’t my style. Instead, I pull out my phone, bring up the picture of Mom’s car, then slide my cell to Eli. “He gave me a file to look at and said that Mom’s death wasn’t an accident.”

There’s silence. It’s a silence so loud I can hear my pulse beneath my skin, the squeak of Cyrus’s chair as he readjusts, the inhale and exhale of breaths. What I loathe in this silence is how it doesn’t feel like shock or surprise. It’s more like guilt.

Dad balls his hands on the table and turns red—the same pissed-off reaction whenever we discuss Mom.

Eli scratches at the stubble on his jaw. “Did you take any more pictures?”

I remain mute and I don’t know why. The answer’s there with a swipe of his finger, it’s on the tip of my tongue, but then my sight lands on Dad again. He’s not lifted his head yet. He hasn’t said a word.

“What do you think of his claim?” asks Eli as he must take my lack of response as a no.

Honestly, didn’t think much of it until I noticed this reaction. “The detective believes the Terror was involved in her death.”

Eli’s dark eyes snap to mine and there’s a chorus of swears from around the room. It’s hard to rip my eyes away from Eli’s. His are as black as death, but with effort, I do, and I discover Dad’s empty seat. He presses his hands against the wall with his shoulders rolled forward. Even from here I can spot the cords of muscles in his neck as they stretch.

“Do you believe him?” Eli’s voice is pitched low. So low it’s almost hard to hear.

I want to answer immediately. To prove I’m a man and that nothing affects me, but he’s asking about my mother—the one person I loved more than my own life. “He said there weren’t skid marks. That there were no signs she tried to stop.”

“What are you saying?” It’s a grumble from my father.

The detective was correct on some things. Mom and Dad did fight in those last months. The memories of listening to her weep between the thin walls as Dad tore off on his bike still haunt me. And he brought a parade of women home a few short weeks after Mom died and then one stayed the night this week. But the idea my father worshipped me? That’s bullshit.

I suck in air and toss myself over the cliff. “Did she kill herself?”

“Razor,” starts Cyrus, but my father turns toward us and raises his hand in the air.

“Do you think the Terror had anything to do with her death?” Dad asks.

I should keep my mouth shut. I’ve tried to discuss Mom’s death with Dad. Each time, he shut me down, but I’ve never done it before in front of the board. Doing this could be a sign of disrespect, but it could also put pressure on him to grant me answers.

“I didn’t ask about the Terror,” I say. “I asked if she killed herself. I’m asking if she was so miserable with you and—” the words catch in my throat “—with me that she pressed on the gas and not on the brake and drove her car over the bridge.”

“Are those the options?” Dad challenges. “That she either killed herself or that one of us, one of your brothers, one of your family, killed her?”

“Did she hate us so much that death was her only option?”

“It was an accident,” says Eli, and I round on him too quick for it to be respectful.