“Stop,” I said, my voice trembling despite how hard I tried to make it stop.

“Once I kicked you out, how many times did I find you in that shitty little apartment you used to live in so out of it you didn’t know I was there?”

I still live there.

“How many times did I have to threaten you with going to prison before you finally cleaned up your act? Huh, Tex?”

My head snapped up, and I realized I’d been staring at the floor. It was a familiar thing to do, staring at the old, worn-out threads while he yelled at me.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t,” he snapped. “The only thing you’ve ever wanted to do is get high and be a lazy, ungrateful asshole. You act like you had such a bad life when you’ve been nothing but spoiled.”

“Spoiled?” I stared at him as the shock settled in. “You call having to deal with your abuse everyday spoiled? How many times did you come home drunk off your ass after a shift just to scream at Mom and me?”

“That’s not abuse. Grow up.”

“Telling your son he’s worthless and your wife she’s useless is abuse,” I snapped right back at him. “But you didn’t give a damn. You were always the cop. The hero. If anyone knew how you treated us—”

“Enough.”

“—they wouldn’t have called you that shit. If they knew, they would have looked at you like another one of the criminals down at the station.” I laughed. “Who am I kidding? Your friends saw it, and they never said anything. All they would do is cover for you.”

We stared at each other, neither one of us backing down. The weight on my chest hadn’t lessened even after dumping some of the frustration that had lived in me since I was a child. The stone was still there, growing as he glared at me like I was just junkie trash on the street in his eyes. Like I wasn’t his son.

Goddamn, I need a hit. A drink. Anything.

“Where are my fucking files?” he asked.

“Henry.” My mother walked in carrying his lunch. She sat it on the little table he had chosen to eat at since I was a kid instead of spending time with his family. Once she was done, she turned, frowning at both of us. “Whatever is going on, stop it. Lunch is ready.” She disappeared. “I’m bringing you a plate too, Tex. We’ll eat together.”

I wanted to tell her I didn’t have an appetite, not anymore. Pulling the files from underneath my armpit, I shoved them at my father. He stared at them before he snatched them out of my hand.

“Is this all of them?” he muttered.

“Yeah.”

“Every last one?”

I sealed my mouth shut. I’d already answered him once; I wasn’t about to do it again. My father loved a well-trained dog, but I was sick and tired of playing. He looked up at me and raised a brow.