When Devils Sing(11)

Reid made his way out of the kitchen, down the long hallway of their home. He passed several rooms before reaching the door of his father’s study. He didn’t know if curiosity or sympathy propelled him forward. Perhaps it was both.

Hovering near the study door, he rested his ear against the polished wood. Jonah could be heard crying on the other side. His sniffling was unmistakable to Reid, as his older brother had always been a dramatic crier.

Knocking once, Reid opened the door.

Jonah sat in one of the worn leather armchairs in the corner, his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. His father leaned against his ornate desk, eyebrows raised as Reid peered in. “Dr. Simmons is here.”

His father nodded once, wiping freshly bloodied knuckles on a towel. He gave Jonah a parting, disapproving look, then peeled away from the desk and stepped out of the room.

Reid eyed his brother, debating whether he should comfort or taunt him. But as Jonah continued to cry into his hands, Reid’s earlier elation began to disappear. Violence was a tool their father wielded carefully. Their father was the hand that broke them, and the hand that made them whole again.

Reid cleared his throat, causing his brother to look up.

Jonah had a fresh black eye, the bruise already turning purple. His bottom lip was swollen with blood crusting around his mouth. He wore a white-collared shirt that wasn’t very white anymore; bloodstains turned the fabric a crude shade of brown.

“Get out of here,” his brother croaked.

Reid frowned. “You look like shit.”

Jonah’s gray eyes were glassy. “I know.”

“I saw the Aston Martin.” Reid took a seat in the armchair beside his brother. “Looked like the deer did a number on it.”

Jonah shook his head. His voice came out rough, strained. “There was no deer.”

Reid’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then what the hell did you hit?”

“Another car.” Jonah buried his face in his hands again. “They went off the road into a ditch.” His voice hitched. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know.”

Reid hesitated. “So … what did you do?”

Jonah didn’t answer for a long moment. “I tried to see if they were okay.” A sob escaped from his brother’s throat. “The kid … he wasn’t moving. There was so much blood. It was everywhere.”

Reid stayed quiet, waiting for his brother to continue. To say what he’d done next, but Jonah only continued to whimper into his hands.

“Did you call 911?” Reid pressed.

Jonah shook his head. “I’d been drinking. I couldn’t get another DUI. Dad would fucking kill me.”

Reid leaned away from his brother, his thoughts racing. Disgust and revulsion pulsed beneath his skin. All his previous excitement was snuffed out. “Do we … do we know what happened to the kid?”

Jonah’s shoulders gave another tremulous shake. He wound his dirtied hands into his brown hair, staring at the polished wood floor. His words a hoarse whisper, Jonah finally said, “I don’t know.”

The realization of what Jonah had done fully dawned on Reid. He struggled to look at his brother at all. “And the driver?”

“It was Samantha Calhoun,” Jonah whispered, meeting Reid’s gaze. “She’s alive … I think.”

Reid blinked. “You mean…?”

Jonah nodded, fear etching across his beaten face. “I hit Wiley’s kids. Wiley’s. Goddamn. Kids.”

Wiley Calhoun was a weapon of a man, wielded exclusively by the Langley family. A discharged war vet whose affection toward violence made him a useful asset to their father. You didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the kind of work he did for the Langleys. Reid feared how their father would handle this, and if Jonah would even survive it.

Before Jonah could say anything else, their father appeared in the doorway with Dr. Simmons. He looked between his two sons, giving little away. “Our good doctor has news.”

Dr. Simmons knelt before Jonah with a leather bag of medical supplies. He turned Jonah’s face upward with gloved hands so he could inspect his cuts and scrapes.

“What happened?” Jonah asked, sounding almost pitifully eager.

“My colleague called me several minutes ago,” Dr. Simmons said, his hands hovering over Jonah’s bruised eye. “The driver sustained minimal injuries, while the boy…”

Jonah swallowed hard, eyes widening as Dr. Simmons applied an ointment to his face. “What—what happened to him?”

Dr. Simmons cleared his throat. “The boy was confirmed dead at 2:04 a.m.”

Jonah struggled to speak. His eyes darted between their father and Dr. Simmons, as if this was an elaborate joke. “No, no.” He shook his head, gray eyes wide and pitiful. “Dad, please.”

Reid couldn’t discern if his brother felt guilty, or if he was simply ashamed of being caught. Their father studied Jonah for a long time, no doubt trying to discern the very same thing.

“However.” Dr. Simmons cut his eyes to Russ, who gave him a small nod, before saying, “He has since been revived. Aside from a few broken bones and fractures, the boy is in a remarkably stable condition.”

Jonah’s bruised face paled. “He’s alive?”

“Lucky for you, son,” their father said. “It seems a medical miracle occurred at Clearwater Regional tonight.”