Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

Evan endures this for about ten seconds before blurting out, “I think it smells good, too.”

His father’s eyes move to the side for a moment, then narrow back on Evan. “Did you finish the yardwork today?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah. I finished.”

“You mowed and swept?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You emptied the bag?”

“I always empty the bag.”

“You watered the plants?”

“Of course.”

“Good, good,” Chuckie says, nodding. “What about the gutters?”

“The gutters?”

“Did you clean them out?”

“You didn’t say anything—”

“Cleaning the gutters is part of cleaning the yard.”

“S-s-since when?”

“So, you’re saying you didn’t clean them.”

“You never told—”

“Grounded. Two weeks.”

“For what?”

“If I were you, I’d stop talking now.”

“But—”

“Evan,” Kate says, the look on her face pleading with him to be quiet.

“And since you like…” Chuckie looks at his wife. “What did you call this? Butternut chicken?”

A pause, before a hesitant whisper: “Butter chicken.”

Chuckie turns back to Evan. “Since you like butter chicken so much, you can eat it all.” He pushes the serving dish toward Evan and dumps his own helping back into it.

“Charles, no,” Kate says. “That’s too much. It’ll make him—”

Her husband quiets her with a hard glance, then swivels his attention back to Evan. “Every last bit. And don’t even try to get up before you finish.” He looks back at Kate. “On second thought, I will have something else. I assume there’s steak left from the other day. Make me a sandwich and bring me a beer.” When she doesn’t leave right away, he says. “Now.”

Kate reluctantly leaves the room.

I wonder if there was a time when she would have stood up to her husband, or was her childhood also abusive and the ability to stand up for herself beaten out of her before she became an adult? Whatever the case, it’s clear she’s learned to operate from a position of accommodation rather than confrontation. It’s probably a method that calms the beast more times than not.

Today is a not day. And I’m sure her only desire is to get her boys through the evening without things escalating.

When I was growing up, there were a few times when my parents didn’t see eye to eye. I can even remember when a disagreement became a little heated once, but I have never witnessed one of them disrespecting the other. Kate faces this prospect day after day.

It’s easy for an outsider like me to wonder why she hasn’t taken her boys and left Chuckie long ago. One of the possibilities that comes to mind is that his reign of terror was not present at the start of their relationship, and that the abuse grew slowly over time. So now she’s clinging to what little hope she still has that their life together will one day return to the way it used to be. It’s a common theme, isn’t it?

As for the boys, their pain and hurt and anger must be off the charts. I wouldn’t doubt that Evan has more than once considered running away. Few would fault him for worrying only about himself in a situation like this. But I’m sure what’s kept him from doing so is his desire to shield his brother from the worst of their father’s ire.

We are going to end their misery. To this I swear.

Chuckie pushes his chair back but does not get up. Instead, he sets his dirty shoes on the table, laces his fingers together, and puts them behind his head. With a sickly smile, he says to Evan, “Go on. Eat.”

The boy closes his eyes for a second or two, like he’s praying, then takes a deep breath and shoves his fork into the food.

Jar and I have dug up several leads today. But that’s all stuff I can tell you about tomorrow.

I’m sure there’s only one matter on your mind.

Does Evan finish off the food?

He does. Every last bite.

Chuckie is there for it all. When his son swallows the last bit, Chuckie simply removes his feet from the table and walks out of the room.

Kate makes Evan drink some Pepto-Bismol, no doubt hoping it will ease any stomach pains. It does not.

Less than an hour after Evan goes up to his room, he’s sitting on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, spilling his dinner and the Pepto into the bowl.

Honestly, that’s probably the best thing that could have happened. At least this way he’ll be able to sleep.

When I finally try to go to sleep myself, one thought keeps playing through my mind.

In how many other homes, where no one is spying on the people who live there, are situations like the Prices’ playing out? In other words, how many others need help?

I don’t know the answers.

I’m not sure I want to know the answers. The thought alone is nearly debilitating.

I really need to pay my parents a visit when I go back.

Chapter Sixteen

Our plan to this point, inasmuch as we’ve had anything specific in mind, has been to catch Chuckie in a moment of abuse and turn that footage over to the authorities. To be clear, we wouldn’t just leave then. We’d make sure the information is followed up on first. If it’s not, we would publicly release the footage and force the police’s hand.

The incident with the butter chicken was definitely abusive, but I doubt it would be enough to get Chuckie even a slap on the wrist. We would need something worse.

The thing is, after witnessing it, I don’t want something worse to happen. Allowing that in order to satisfy the need to report Chuckie would make us complicit. I cannot live with that.

So, we are shifting our focus.

We need to bring Chuckie down as soon as possible.

Thankfully, we already know he’s up to something.

The note. The secret phone. The twice-locked door to his home office.

If what he’s doing is illegal (and it sure seems to be), finding proof to back it up would give us a way to deal with him without even touching on the domestic abuse.

Here’s what we learned yesterday.

Robert Lyman, the guy