Page 31 of Carjacked
“What the hell?” I growl, noticing the logs stacked at the front of the cabin. “Someone’s in my cabin.”
Lila sucks in a shaky breath. “That’s not good. Do you think it’s an intruder?”
I nod. “It’s been abandoned for so long someone must have decided to fix it up and squat.” I crack my neck. “We’ll have a fight on our hands.”
Lila pales. “More murder?”
“I can’t let someone who broke into my home get away with it.” A surge of adrenaline courses through my body, sharpening my senses.
I’ve faced monsters before, but this feels different. This cabin has always been a sanctuary. To have that violated is a different beast altogether.
I park the truck a safe distance away, my gaze locked on the plume of smoke. “Stay here,” I tell Lila.
She opens her mouth to protest, but before she can, I kiss her.
“Don’t argue.”
She sighs heavily. “Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I can’t help but think I’d love to beat that bratty attitude out of her. Pull her over my knee and spank her ass until it’s red. “Good girl,” I murmur before getting out of the truck and pulling my gun from its holster.
With cautious steps, I approach the cabin, the crisp crunch of leaves beneath my boots echoing ominously. The scent of burning wood fills my nostrils, a stark reminder of the foreign presence in my sanctuary. As I reach the cabin door, my grip tightens around my gun.
Without hesitation, I kick in the door, splintering the aged wood. “Who the fuck are you?” I demand, aiming my gun at the unkempt figure who looks at me with alarm from where he’s seated by the fire, a worn-out blanket draped over his shoulder.
The intruder is a man, grizzled with age and he meets my glare with a steady gaze.
“I’m the owner of this cabin,” he states.
“Bullshit,” I retort, “the old man’s been dead for thirty-two years.”
The man sighs, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as if amused by my ignorance. “Your mom always had a flair for the dramatic,” he mutters.
My heart thuds against my rib cage. “What the hell are you talking about?” I demand, my grip on the gun tightening.
He meets my gaze. “Son,” he states, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’m Liam, your dad.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips because of the absurdity of his claim. “Impossible,” I spit out, my anger flaring. “You’re lying!”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a lie. My name’s Liam Williams, husband to Donna Williams and father to Ashton Williams.”
Rage, confusion, pain. I shake my head, unable to accept his declaration. “No,” I growl, clenching my teeth, “he’s dead.”
And with that, the room falls silent, the crackling fire the only sound punctuating the tense quiet. The emotions churning within me are complex, complicated by years of abandonment and the bitterness of betrayal.
“I know your mother died from a heroin overdose when you were five,” he begins, his voice heavy with regret. That’s news to me. All I know is that she dumped me at a foster home when I was four. “I’m sorry I left you with her, but I wasn’t cut out to be a father either.” The admission tastes like bile in my mouth, the harsh reality of his abandonment hitting me like a freight train. “I had my demons,” he adds.
He meets my eyes once again, his expression grave. “And I know you’ve fallen victim to your upbringing, considering there’s a nationwide manhunt for you.” His words hang heavy in the room’s silence, a stark reminder of my failings. There’s a quiet moment before he continues, “When I saw the news, I knew you’d be heading here.”
“And what do you want from me now?” I snap.
His gaze is fixed on me as if weighing his words carefully. But I’m not looking for calculated responses or well-crafted lies. I want the truth. “Just spit it out!”
“I want a chance to make things right,” he murmurs.
I stiffen, my heart pounding in my chest. The audacity of his request is staggering. The blatant disregard for the past, for the life I’ve had to endure because of him, is maddening. I feel the anger bubbling up inside me, hot and raw. “You think you can waltz back into my life and fix everything?” I spit out, my voice icy. “You don’t get to show up and play the hero, Dad.” The word ‘dad’ sounds foreign on my tongue.
“I know I can’t fix things,” he admits, his voice steady. “But I can offer you a safe place, a haven.” His gaze moves toward the window. “I’ve got a home in Alaska, much larger and safer than this. You can have it.” My eyebrows furrow in surprise, but I stay quiet, listening. He continues, “I’ve been running too, Ash. From crimes, from my past. I’ve built a cabin up there on the same land.” His voice is barely more than a whisper. “I’ll live there. We don’t have to see each other unless we want to. You can have your peace, and I can have mine.” His words hang in the air, a proposal that’s as unexpected as it is tempting. I know staying here in Montana is dangerous. The authorities could catch up to me, but Alaska is a different beast entirely.