Page 16 of Brutal
My father cuts through the thought, as clearly as if he were standing behind me.
You don’t leave things unfinished.
I close my hand into a fist. The edge of the ring presses into my skin.
My father’s right. I don’t leave things unfinished.
Delaney Cross will find that out soon enough.
4
DELANEY
I step out of the cab and pull my coat tighter around me. The sky hangs low and gray and the air smells faintly of salt and damp rope.
I stand there longer than I should, taking it in. It’s just a marina. A place like this shouldn’t hold the kind of story I’ve been chasing.
A few narrow docks stretch into dark water. The tide laps softly against the posts. A gull cries somewhere overhead.
I tuck my hands into my pockets and walk.
The boards under my boots are worn smooth in places. I move carefully, not because I’m afraid of slipping, but because I’m looking at the height of the railing. The width between posts. How easily someone could be pushed.
Or pulled back.
I stop near the end of the dock.
The water here is deep and opaque. I look down at it for a moment too long. Then I straighten.
It was an accident. That’s the official statement. A confrontation that escalated. A man who lost his footing. File closed.
Except nothing about it ever felt right to me.
Too many small inconsistencies. Too many missing pieces. The kind of gaps people are happy to overlook because they’re overworked and they need to move onto the next thing.
I turn away from the water and head back.
A bar sits just off the docks. It’s a dive, the kind of place that survives on regulars and habit more than anything else. I pull the door open and step inside.
I inhale the hoppy scent of stale beer. Daylight filters in through the front windows. A couple of men sit at the far end of the bar, talking. The television above them plays some kind of sports game.
Behind the counter, an older man wipes down a glass. He looks up when I walk in. “Afternoon.”
“Hi.” I take a seat a few stools down from the others.
“What can I get you?”
“Whiskey,” I say. Not that I normally drink at this hour, but I have to order something.
He pours it without comment and slides the glass toward me.
I listen to the low murmur at the other end of the bar.
“Do you get a lot of traffic out here this time of year?” I ask the barkeep.
He huffs, something close to a laugh. “Not much. Summer’s better. Boats, tourists. Now it’s mostly the same faces.”
I nod and take a small sip of the whiskey. It burns my throat—a far cry from the smooth amber liquid I sipped at the club last night.
