The divorce papers aren't even cold and he's already found his next victim. My throat tightens as I think about Mom, how many "lady friends" there must have been while she was at home, trying to hold our family together with bloody hands and broken bones.

"Wait, does he come here often?"

The bartender shrugs, his rag making lazy circles on the polished wood. "Lately, yeah. Been in here a fair bit the past week. Tips well, too."

Of course he fucking does.

It's hush money, just like everything else with Scott—buying silence, crafting his image, making sure everyone sees exactly what he wants them to see. But what eats at me more is why he's still in Eden.

Then the pieces click into place like a gun being loaded. Jake's whereabouts during the day. The way he's been disappearing for hours, giving vague answers about where he's been. The subtle changes in his behavior, the new edge to his anger, the way he's started parroting Scott's words like they're gospel.

Fuck.

Every time Jake went M.I.A., every time we couldn't reach him, every time Mom's calls went straight to voicemail—he was with Scott.

My grip tightens on the glass until I'm afraid it might shatter. While I've been trying to keep Jake away from Scott's influence, the bastard's been working his way in through the back door, poisoning my little brother's mind one "father-son" moment at a time. The same way he did with me, before I learned the truth about what kind of man he really was. Before I understood that his attention always came with a price. That his love was just another weapon in his arsenal.

I'm halfway through contemplating whether smashing the glass against the bar would be cathartic or just messy when Jay walks in—hood up despite the heat, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes sweep the room once before locking on mine, and he heads over with that easy, no-nonsense stride.

"You look like shit," he says, sliding onto the stool next to me. No preamble, no bullshit—just Jay being Jay.

"I look better than I feel," I mutter, taking another sip of my drink, wishing it was strong enough to dull the frustration gnawing at my chest.

He gestures to the bartender for a Coke, then leans back. His body language is casual, but his eyes scan me the way they did that night. He found me bloody-knuckled in a parking lot—the night everything changed between us.

"All right, you gonna tell me what's going on, or are we playing twenty questions?"

I huff out a laugh, low and humorless.