Page 60 of My Fixation

“He’s mine, Uncle Duncan.” The words feel possessive and certain. Like a fact I’ve known for months. “I think I knew it long before I realized it.”

Uncle Duncan’s finger taps on the steering wheel. He doesn’t do tells or ticks, so what is he thinking so hard about? Before I can ask, he says, “We’re here.”

Chapter 32

Conor

The row of townhouses sits in the middle of a quiet suburban neighborhood. Every small yard is neatly maintained. Freshly cut grass, trimmed hedges, flowerbeds bursting with color. Children’s toys litter the front lawns. Bicycles lay abandoned in driveways. The sidewalks are covered in colorful chalk drawings that have long since blurred at the edges from foot traffic and rain.

Signs of ordinary lives. Of families. Of people who spend their evenings grilling in their backyards and waving to their neighbors. I don’t understand the appeal. Why anyone would willingly choose to live practically on top of another person has always confused me.

I’ve always preferred space and privacy. The isolation my property provides. No curious neighbors, no one looking over a fence.

We find Henry’s car and park a short distance away. Then we wait. Most people in Henry’s line of work are nocturnal creatures. Bad things thrive under the cover of darkness. Deals are made. Threats are delivered. People disappear.

We arrive just as the sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the neighborhood in shades of orange and gold before surrendering to the coming night. The sedan settles into silence. Outside, porch lights flicker on one by one. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The last of the neighborhood children are called inside for dinner. Normal life continues around us. Unaware of what waits in the dark.

I reach up and check that the interior light is disabled. Satisfied, I crack my door open a few inches. Cool evening air slips into the car. I settle back into my seat and keep my eyes on Henry’s vehicle. Waiting for the night to begin.

“He’s coming out.” Uncle Duncan’s voice cuts through the silence. I look up. Henry steps out of the townhouse building and heads toward his car. The son of a bitch is whistling, off-key. Loud enough that I can hear it from across the parking lot. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he hasn’t spent months making Jaxon’s life a living hell. My jaw tightens.

I slip out of the car and crouch low between the parked vehicles. The evening air is cool against my skin. Around me, the neighborhood carries on as normal. Porch lights glow. A television flickers through a nearby window. Henry notices none of it. He tosses his keys into the air and catches them with an easy grin.

He’s completely relaxed, completely unaware. I watch him approach. Watch him stroll through the parking lot without checking his surroundings once. It’s careless and arrogant. He’s certain he’s untouchable. The realization would almost be amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic.

He passes within arm’s reach. Then keeps walking. Never seeing me. Never realizing the danger until it’s far too late.

I stand and slip my arm around his neck. His surprise lasts only a fraction of a second. It’s too late as I slip the needle into his neck. Then his body goes slack. The keys slip from his fingers and clatter against the pavement. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the quiet evening.

For the first time since Jaxon received those messages, I feel something settle inside me. Henry is no longer the one in control.

Uncle Duncan pulls the car alongside me, and the trunk pops open. I haul Henry up and dump him inside. His shoulder slams into the side with a dull thud. I don’t bother being careful. He certainly wasn’t careful with Jaxon. Henry remains unconscious, oblivious to the rough treatment.

I slam the trunk shut. The sound echoes through the quiet parking lot before being swallowed by the night. A moment later, I’m back in the passenger seat.

Uncle Duncan pulls away from the curb without a word. Within seconds, we’re merging into traffic. To anyone watching, we’re just another car heading home for the evening.

Beside me, Duncan keeps his eyes on the road. Behind us, Henry rides in the trunk.

“Why were you asking about Jaxon?” I ask. “You could have asked the same question to Declan.”

“I’m curious as to why all of a sudden you claimed him.” Uncle Duncan smirks. “It seems to be a pattern with this family.”

My attention catches on the wording. This family. Not you boys. This family. I turn my head slightly and study his profile. Something feels off. Not wrong, exactly just different. I just can’t put my finger on why.

The problem with trying to read Duncan is that there isn’t much to read. Outward displays of emotion were never encouraged in our family. The men in this car learned from an early age to recognize emotions in other people while not being able to show it themselves.

Duncan perfected that skill long before I was born. His expression is neutral. His posture relaxed. His hands steady on the steering wheel. Yet something is there.

A thought occurs to me. “Is there someone you plan on claiming?”

Duncan shoots me a look. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The answer is immediate. I raise an eyebrow.

“Interesting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

I let it go and turn my attention back to the road. The city slowly gives way to stretches of highway and scattered lights. I watch the landscape blur past the window.