He turned his head and spat, the sound triggering something in the back of my brain. The feeling of hot, thick saliva hitting my face. Coiling revulsion in my stomach from the rotten tobacco smell of it. He stepped toward me slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. Like he was testing me, daring me to run. He used to call me a coward for running.

I lifted my chin and clasped my hands behind my back. It probably looked like I was at ease, but I wanted to hide how tightly my hands were clenched.

“Your property,” he drawled, glancing from me to Vincent, then Jason. “Is that how it is? No room for dear old dad, huh?” He looked up at the house, his eyes narrowing. To have him come here and look in on my family made me sick. “Well, ain’t that something. Got a place all your own, moved all your friends in, even got yourself a girl. Or one of you does. I can’t tell which one of you is fucking her.”

How long had he been watching us? Was this the first time he’d been out here? Or was this only the first time he’d made himself obvious?

“I’m not interested in chatting.” Rage blanketed my fear, drowning it out. “Leave, or we’ll make you leave.”

He stared at me, nodding slowly. His eyes kept flickering back to the house, like he was searching for something. “Big man now, I see. Got your own space and you think it’s right to leave family out in the cold? You’re lucky I’m not looking for a room tonight. I’m not looking for a goddamn handout. I want what I’ve got rights to.”

“There’s not a single thing on this property you have any right to. If Mom had wanted you to have this place, she would have left it to you. But she didn’t.”

In my mind’s eye, I could see myself slamming my fist into his face again and again — blood spattering, his nose breaking, teeth cracking.

How many times had I thought about killing him? I used to dream about it, how I’d stand up to him one day, how I’d prove he never broke me. I’d relish the shock on his face before he died. I even used to imagine what would happen after I killed him; what I’d say in court, how I’d survive in prison.

But that would have made me just like him, capable of the same violence. It would prove that the cycle continued, pain begetting pain.