“He’s here to keep tabs on us.” Brock raised his voice, more speaking to my dad than me. “Red Demons know that we’re closing in on where the big wigs are hiding, and they want all eyes on us that they can get. It ain’t going to happen. You have to leave, Mr. Monroe.”

I closed my eyes, memories assaulting me.

“...we’re charging Mr. Monroe with the assault and murder of …”

It washed over me, with the feels, the smells. The stale beer assaulting my nose. The dried sweat. The metallic smell of the blood. How blood could have a smell was beyond me, but it did.

I could feel the knife in my hand again.

The sound of his footsteps.

“Honey?”

My eyes snapped open. I was jarred back to reality, and I stared hard at my dad. “You have to leave.”

“But, Bren—”

“NOW!”

I didn’t want to go back there. If him being here was bringing memories from that first night, I didn’t want to endure what else I’d go through, again. The longer he stayed, the more I’d have to fight through.

“Bren—” He started to slide out of the booth.

It wasn’t fast enough. None of it was fast enough.

I needed Brock off of my back.

I needed my dad out of my life.

I needed all of it gone.

I grabbed his computer, snapping it shut, and was out the door in two steps. Heaving it over my head, I threw it as far as I could. Vehicles were pulling into the parking lot. I heard the crumble of the dirt under their tires, and I knew others had come out to watch what was going on, but I ignored all of them.

I had to.

My heart was pounding.

My hands were sweaty.

I felt like I was having a panic attack right then and there. No. I was having a panic attack.

Going back inside, my dad hadn’t moved. Brock too. Both were still in place, and I bent, sweeping the rest of his papers into my hands. Those followed behind his laptop. I tossed it all as hard as I could, but some flew back in the wind. A few even sailed right back inside.

I stepped on one, and I was almost dry heaving looking at what else he had there.

His phone.

His glasses.

I reached for both, but he jerked forward. Grabbing his phone, he stepped into me and wrapped his arms around me. “Sweetheart—”

“I’m not your sweetheart!” I ripped myself from his arms.

Another man in a matter of minutes who decided to touch me. He didn’t have that right. Brock hadn’t either. I was going feral again, the need to teach them both a lesson.

I waited, my hand ready, and I glared at him. “Get out. Get. Out. GET OUT!”

“Hon—!” he tried to yell at me, and he reached.