Jax rapped his knuckles on the door. A few moments passed and when no one answered, I figured this was going to be a no go, but then Jax pounded his fist on it.

“Whoa,” I murmured, glancing around. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

He ignored me as he leaned in. “Open up the door, Ritchey. I know you’re in there. Your piece-of-shit car is out front.”

My eyes widened as my stomach dipped.

There was a beat of silence and then the front door opened to a crack. I couldn’t see anyone, but I heard in a scratchy voice, “What the fuck do you want, Jackson?”

Um.

Jax placed his hand on the center of the faded red door. “We need to talk.”

“Talk” was the response.

“Not on the front doorstep of your damn house, Ritchey. Let us in.”

There was a pause. “Us?” Then the door opened to about a foot and a man’s head appeared. I took an involuntary step back from the sight of the unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, and bulbous nose covered in broken blood vessels. “Who the fuck are you?”

I recognized the man even though he stared at me like he’d never seen me before. Holy shit, there was no way I’d forget those watery eyes and nose. He used to come over to the house and party with Mom.

“Really none of your business, Ritchey, and I’m not here to make introductions,” Jax cut in, and his tone . . . wow, it was all kinds of badass. I was actually staring up at him, kind of shocked. “Open the door.”

Ritchey didn’t open the door.

There was a low curse and then Jax moved. Planting his foot into the door, he pushed with his boot and hand. The door opened and Ritchey went wheeling backward.

“Um . . .”

Jax took my hand, tugging me inside, and the smell—God, the smell was the first thing I noticed as he shut the door behind us. The room, which consisted of a blaring TV and two couches that had seen better days, smelled like a mixture of cat piss and booze.

Please do not let my mom be in here.

I know that I was wrong for thinking that. Finding her would ease my problems quickly, but I didn’t want to think of her in a place like this.

“Not cool, man.” Ritchey backed away, scratching at his throat with dirty nails. The skin of his neck was red. “Pushing the door open like you’re a damn cop or something.”

“You didn’t open the door,” Jax returned.

I had to wonder how much practice he had busting up into houses with um . . . questionable residents, because he was completely at ease doing so. I took a step to the side, because I realized there was a hole in the floorboard in front of me, and I could see over the back of a couch.

My chest squeezed.

There was a small child, maybe five or six, curled up on the couch, lying under a thin quilt. A cat was tucked in the little’s boy lap. I stared at the kid, sickened.