And in the yard, three massive black pickup trucks with tinted windows squatted like predators. Their tires crushed the grass Matthew cared for every weekend. The trucks were caked with red border mud, thick and dried, the kind you only see on dirt roads where smugglers run.
Then I heard the music.
That same pounding rap blasting through the walls, celebrating violence in a home Matthew had kept quiet on purpose.
My stomach turned.
This wasn’t a vacation. This wasn’t an emergency flight to Miami.
This was an invasion.
I crept closer, staying in shadow, moving the way the land taught me to move when you don’t want to spook something dangerous. I found a thin gap in the living room curtains and peered inside.
Lauren’s parents sprawled across Matthew’s expensive Italian leather sofa like conquering kings. Her father’s face was flushed with alcohol as he drank whiskey straight from a bottle.
Her mother sat with a cigarette, ash falling onto a white wool rug I knew Matthew had vacuumed weekly. She laughed at something, head thrown back, smoke curling around her hair.
But the man who held my attention wasn’t either of them.
Cyclops.
Lauren’s brother, the one Matthew had banned from his house because he ran with cartels. He wore a tank top that showed off a black scorpion tattoo crawling from his bicep up his neck. A thick gold chain hung at his chest. He cleaned his fingernails with Matthew’s fruit knife like it was a joke, like he owned everything in that room.
My jaw clenched so hard I felt pain.
Where was my son?
I stepped back into the dark, mind racing. I needed to see Lauren. I needed to hear her say his name in a way that wasn’t a lie. I smoothed my jacket, made sure the knife wasn’t visible, and rang the doorbell.
The music died abruptly.
Whispered voices. Heavy footsteps.
“Who is it?” a hoarse male voice growled, irritated. “I said no visitors.”
“Let me check,” Lauren answered, trying to sound normal. “Probably the pizza.”
The door opened a crack.
Lauren stood there in a thin nightgown with a sweater thrown over it, hair messy, makeup heavy. The makeup couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes. When she saw me, every trace of color drained from her face as if someone had pulled a plug.
“William,” she whispered, barely audible.
“Hello, daughter,” I said, keeping my voice calm. Calm is armor. “I’m here to see my son.”
Her eyes were wide, frightened. “Dad, why did you come? We told you. We’re at the airport. Matthew is sleeping. He’s very tired.”
The lies tumbled out clumsily, contradicting each other. She was so scared she couldn’t even keep her story straight.
Cyclops appeared behind her, beer bottle in hand, face red with drink and arrogance. He looked me up and down like I was dirt on his boots.
“Who is it, sis?” he said, then grinned. “Ah. The old rancher.”
He stepped forward, blowing alcohol fumes into my face. “Wrong house, old man. Nobody buys vegetables here. Get out.”
“I came to see my son,” I said, not moving.
Cyclops laughed, a harsh sound. “Your son doesn’t want to see you. He’s sick of your cow-shit smell.” He turned toward Lauren, his tone turning sharp. “Close the door. Kick him out, or I won’t be responsible.”
Lauren’s sleeve shifted as she moved, and I saw bruises on her wrist. Finger marks. Someone had grabbed her hard enough to leave evidence.
Her eyes met mine, tears gathering. “Please go,” she whispered. “Matthew is fine. Tomorrow I’ll tell him to call you. Please.”
“Lauren,” I said, voice lowering, “where is my son?”
Her lips parted, trembling, but she didn’t answer.
I stepped forward, trying to push past her.
The door slammed in my face. The bolt clicked. Inside, Cyclops’s mocking laughter rose again as the music returned, louder than before.
They thought a wooden door would stop me.
They thought I would walk away, defeated and embarrassed, like some harmless old man with nothing left but loneliness and gifts that never got delivered.
But I’ve faced down bulls in a storm. I’ve survived winters that took livestock and men. I’ve buried the love of my life and kept moving because there was no other choice. I was not about to abandon my son to wolves wearing family faces.
I pretended to give up.
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