from the top was where he kept his liquor. He needed a drink, but there was nothing there.
He slammed the door shut with a bang. “Goddamn it, Judd Hanna! You answer me, boy! What did you do with my whiskey?”
Again, the rooms echoed from the sound of Joe’s voice. Rage grew. His belly burned and his head was swimming. In a minute, he was going to lie down, but not before he got his hands on that damned kid.
Joe started through the rooms, shouting Judd’s name. Doors slammed. A lamp tumbled to the floor and shattered into pieces, and still no sign of the boy. He was furious. The shame of being fired, coupled with the frustrations of his life in general, had boiled into a rage. He staggered back into the kitchen, swaying where he stood and staring around the house in disbelief.
It took a while for him to realize that the door leading down to the basement was slightly ajar. A cold smile broke the anger on his face. Seconds later, he stood at the landing, shouting Judd’s name into the darkness below.
The basement walls were damp with condensation, the odors a choking blend of dust and mold. Something scurried in the darkness beneath ten-year-old Judd Hanna’s feet and he stifled a gasp. Yet the fear of the unknown was far less sinister to him than the man standing at the landing of the stairs.
“Judd…Judd, boy, I know you’re down there. Answer me, damn it.”
Judd held his breath, afraid to swallow for fear he’d be heard.
When his father started down the steps, every muscle in Judd’s body went tense.
No, no, no…God, don’t let him find me.
“Answer me, you sorry little bastard. I know you’re down there,” Joe growled.
Judd squeezed his eyes shut and shrank a little farther against the wall. If he couldn’t see his father, then his father couldn’t see him. It was a game he’d played in his mind for more years than he cared to count. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
“What did you do with my whiskey, boy? Answer me, you hear? Don’t make me come down there and get you.”
Judd gritted his teeth, struggling against the need to cry. It had been years since he’d given his father the satisfaction of knowing he could be hurt.
Joe cursed beneath his breath and reached for the light switch. But nothing happened. He cursed even louder, unaware that Judd had taken the bulb out in hopes he wouldn’t be found. But to Judd’s dismay, his father started down the steps, fumbling his way through the dark and cursing with every breath.
Judd slid silently to the floor and doubled over on himself, trying to become invisible. His eyes were closed, his breathing almost nonexistent.
“I know you’re here,” Joe whispered.
Judd’s heart was pounding and the bitter taste of fear was in his mouth.
Please God, if you’re out there…take me away. Take me away.
“You can’t hide from me. Come out now and take your punishment like a man.”
Bile rose in the back of Judd’s throat. Please, God, please. Not again. Not again. Don’t let him—
“Gotcha!” Joe said.
When the hand closed around the back of Judd’s neck, he knew it was over. He did not go willingly. Fighting against the pain of his father’s grasp, he struggled to pull free. If he could get to the stairs, he could get away. He would be safe after that. His father was bound to pass out soon. He always passed out. Those were the only times Judd ever knew peace.
Joe backhanded his son, wincing when one of Judd’s teeth accidentally cut the back of his knuckle.
“Don’t you bite me, you little bastard,” Joe snarled.
Judd’s mouth was already swelling as he tried to break free of his father’s grasp.
“I didn’t mean to, Daddy, I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Joe snapped, and backhanded him again. “Why didn’t you answer me when I called you? And what the hell did you do with my whiskey?”
Reeling from the force of the blows, Judd couldn’t think, let alone answer. All he could do was duck and hold up his hands, trying to dodge his father’s fists.
It was futile.
Joe was too far gone in his rage to think about what he was doing. In his mind, he was striking out at the man who had fired him and the bartender who’d refused him a last drink. He saw the woman who had laughed at him as he stumbled out of the bar, and himself in a cycle of self-destruction with no way out.
He hated what he saw.
It was the painful jolt of flesh against flesh that finally sank through his senses. Slowly, he became aware that the skin on his hand was stinging. He paused, his arm raised above his head, and looked at the boy who was his son. The child’s face was covered in blood. Joe shuddered, his stomach suddenly roiling as the adrenaline rush started to crash. He needed to lie down.
“Now, then,” he muttered as he staggered back against the wall. “Let that be a lesson to you.”
He expected Judd to run. When he didn’t move, Joe shrugged, then turned, grabbing at the stair rail to steady himself. From the faint light spilling out from the stairwell above, he could see that Judd hadn’t moved. In fact, the boy’s silent demeanor was starting to get to him.
“It’s your own fault,” he mumbled.
Judd’s only response was a slow, careful breath. He would die before he let Joe Hanna know that he hurt.
Joe watched a thick drop of blood gathering at the corner of Judd’s nose. He began to get nervous. Tomorrow was a school day. If Judd went to school in this condition, someone might decide to butt into their business. And at this point in Joe’s life, he had too much to lose to let that happen.
Joe’s wife was dead, worn out by the years of living with the man who had been her husband. And while her death had left him with the burden of raising their son all alone, there had been a benefit to the loss that Joe hadn’t expected. Until Judd reached the age of eighteen, he received a monthly social security check on his mother’s behalf. And, as Judd’s legal guardian, the check came to Joe. It kept a roof over their heads and beer in his belly.
Yet even in the state he was in, Joe had sense enough to realize that if he lost custody of his son, he would lose access to the money. He couldn’t let that happen. So, instead of apologizing to his son, he angrily pointed a finger in Judd’s face.
“Don’t think you’re gonna go running to those damned teachers you’re so fond of and tattle on me,” Joe snarled. “They won’t help you. You know why? ’Cause you’re white trash, boy, and people don’t give a damn about white trash.”
Judd’s hands curled into fists. A red haze was spreading between himself and his father, and he couldn’t think past the heat in his belly. The urge to hit was overwhelming. The urge to wipe that look off his father’s face forever was even stronger.
Joe snorted. The kid
