The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(84)

“Malcolm . . . is that where you slept?” She barely got the words out.

He stood up. “Yes.” He looked down at the blanket as if seeing it through new eyes. “It wasn’t bad. I could hide books.”

Captain Vargas stuck his head in the door at that moment. “Y’all done in here? We’re headed to the other structure.”

“In a minute,” said Evan.

Rowan eyed her brother. He’d been different since they’d stepped into the small building. More assured. More confident.

Getting closure was the right thing for him.





46


The building where Malcolm and his captor had lived smelled bad.

Evan had been breathing through his mouth since they entered. A combination of body odor, mildew, and urine. It was strongest near the small bathroom, which Evan refused to look inside. When Malcolm admitted to sleeping under the table, his heart had contracted in sympathy, but then he’d realized that it was all Malcolm knew. And Malcolm hadn’t hated it.

“Done?” Evan asked after the captain left.

“Yes.” Malcolm stepped outside.

Rowan sighed.

“You okay?” Evan asked her.

“As good as I can be. He lived in squalor while I grew up in a middle-class home.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But the guilt drowns me sometimes.” She exited the building with Evan right behind her, and he took several deep breaths of the clean forest air.

Malcolm turned a corner around the side of the house and disappeared, Thor at his heels. Evan and Rowan ran after him. “Keep him in sight,” muttered Evan.

“Why? Where’s he going to go?” asked Rowan. “You can’t think he still wants to be involved with the man who took West?” she asked incredulously, shooting him a side-eye.

“I don’t think that. Not at all,” said Evan. He might have wondered that at first, suspicious of the way Malcolm had shown up at his parents’. But now he’d seen enough of Malcolm’s pain to know the man wasn’t acting. He was a victim.

They found Malcolm behind the house, staring at a large wooden box.

“Oh God.” Rowan slammed to a halt.

That’s the box he was held in.

Evan looked away from the box, but what he saw increased his sympathy. They were standing in the middle of a gorgeous, healthy forest with a bright-blue sky, nature’s paradise. And in front of them was a weapon of abuse.

A small child would easily fit. Even a preteen. But a teenager or adult would have to lie on their side and pull up their knees to fit inside. Sitting up would be impossible for a person of any age. A rusty, unlocked padlock dangled from its black metal clasp. No doubt the SWAT team had looked inside.

Did they guess how it was used?

Malcolm threw the padlock to one side and flung open the lid, a ferocious look on his face. Evan peered inside. Empty. The bottom was made from heavy wooden slats, the walls thick and reinforced like the lid. Malcolm spun around and strode to the side of the house, where he grabbed a sledgehammer that leaned against the wall next to an axe and huge branch trimmers.

His gaze locked on the box, Malcolm swung the sledgehammer at the lid and knocked it off one hinge. Another swing detached it from the second hinge, and it fell to the ground. He lowered the sledgehammer, leaning on the handle, panting hard.

He’s too weak to destroy it all.

Evan stepped to his side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and held out the other toward the sledgehammer. “Let me do it.”

“No.” Malcolm shook his head. “I can do it.” He lifted the hammer again and let the heavy head slam into the side of the box. Boards cracked but stayed in place. Malcolm rested again.

“Please,” said Evan. “Let me destroy the fucking thing.”

Malcolm held his gaze for a long moment and then handed Evan the long-handled hammer.

Evan hefted it. It wasn’t a wimpy ten-pound head. It had to be closer to twenty. He wondered how Malcolm had used it, weak as he was.

He’s fueled by rage.

Evan clenched his jaw and swung, letting his body weight carry through the swing. One side splintered, and the impact rattled up every bone in his arms. He swung again. And again, feeding on Malcolm’s anger and hate.

Minutes later, the box was in pieces.

Breathing hard, Evan lowered the handle and rested on it as Malcolm had. A sense of accomplishment and satisfying revenge filled him as he met Malcolm’s gaze.

“Thank you,” Malcolm said, sincerity in his tone.

“Anytime,” answered Evan.

Rowan put her arms around Malcolm, and he tensed but then softened into her hug. “I’m so sorry, Mal.”

He slowly shook his head. “I was always thankful that it was me instead of you.”

Rowan shook with quiet sobs, and Evan struggled to stay back and let the two of them have the emotional moment.

After a moment Malcolm moved out of her arms. “There’s something I want inside the house. Be right back.”

“How are you doing?” Evan asked as she wiped her eyes.

“Why are people so horrible to each other?” she pleaded. “What kind of person does that to a child? Or even an adult? What are they getting out of it?”

“Power. Control,” said Evan. “They feed on it. It’s an addiction.”