Connor’s street was full of children in masks. Little make-believe monsters. There’s a real monster on this street, I wanted to shout.
But that wouldn’t stop him. I had to trust that my mom and dad would be able to do something about Mr. Barrett. Stop him somehow. I had to hope.
I parked the car down the block, where Connor was waiting for us. Solomon waved to his stepbrother, through the windshield.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when I unbuckled my seat belt. “I just can’t.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “Every great escape needs a getaway driver.”
“But I can’t drive.”
“Well, then, every great escape needs somebody to sit in the car and wait.”
“You’re stupid,” Solomon said, grinning. “Just call me if things get scary, okay? I’ll kick down the door if I have to. Punch his face off.”
I didn’t doubt that Solomon could do so. He was taller and stronger than Mr. Barrett. But in Solomon’s mind the man would forever be the biggest, most frightening monster in a world that was full of them.
“Hey,” Connor said, when I got out. And then he hugged me so hard I wanted to cry for him.
“Is he . . . ?”
“His car is in the driveway. Could be out for his afternoon run . . . could be taking a nap. So . . . we’ll need to be superquiet just in case, I guess.”
I took his hand, and we started walking. There were still forty-five minutes, before I was supposed to meet up with Sheffield. Provided we got in and out without incident or confrontation, that wouldn’t be a problem.
Connor said, “I feel dumb, asking for your help.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s not that I think he’d hurt me. Although I guess I really have no idea what he is and isn’t capable of, if I never . . .”
I didn’t answer. Connor didn’t need my advice, my wisdom. All he needed was someone to listen.
“I’m just afraid if I see him, I’ll—I don’t know, lose it.”
“I get that,” I said.
I could see the treehouse looming in the backyard. Early twilight; it held nothing but darkness inside.
We slipped into the house silently, and made our way upstairs. Connor went to work, sloppily stuffing shirts and pants into a duffel bag.
I stood in the hallway. Watched Mr. Barrett’s bedroom door. Prayed it wouldn’t open.
And then, it did.
And there he was. Struggling into his fancy clothes, for the Halloween dance. Bleary-eyed, like maybe he hadn’t slept so well, but otherwise the same. Strong, broad, scary shoulders. Muscled arms. He could hurt us, if he wanted to.
“Ash,” he said, and a shiver went through me. And nausea. And rage.
You broke him.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Why are you standing in the dark?”
The next breath would not come.
“Hey,” he said, and reached out his hand, and touched my forearm—
And he wasn’t trying to hurt me—he had no reason to, he had no idea how much I hated him—and my brain knew that, but my body—
Reacted. Tapped into something (the other side), some skill from somewhere else entirely (the other Ash), and my arms moved fast as lightning, grabbing his wrist with one hand and his elbow with the other and twisting, bending his arm a way it should never go, bringing this big strong man to his knees with a yelp of pain and surprise.
“Hell of a move,” he grunt-laughed.
“Don’t fucking talk to me,” I said. Whispering; praying Connor did not come out of his room.
Now he wince-laughed. “What happened, Ash?”
I didn’t mean to say anything. I knew the smart thing was to get the hell out of there without risking a confrontation. Let the wheels of justice handle Mr. Barrett.
But part of me didn’t trust those wheels. And even if anything came of my parents’ attempts to hold him accountable, it would arrive in the form of legal papers, a phone call. Something that would give him plenty of time to put on a brave face, lie his way through it.
I wanted to see the fear flicker in his eyes.
“I know,” I hissed. “What you did to Solomon.”
“Solomon has a serious mental illness,” he said, shaking his head in false sadness. “And you’re not helping him if you indulge these persecution fantasies—”
“I saw you,” I said. “The day I fell from your treehouse. I saw you sexually assault him.”
His face went blank for just a fraction of a second. His eyes twitched. If any fear flickered there, it was only for a split second. And then—he laughed.
“And you’ve known all this time? Or, let me guess, you’ve suddenly regained your memories?” He laughed again, and I stopped myself from twisting his wrist and elbow and breaking his arm. “I don’t doubt that you believe what you’re saying. You’re worried about your friend, and your brain has manufactured a narrative that—”
“It’s not manufactured,” I said. “And there will be a reckoning.”
More laughter; more barely stifled urge to shatter his bones. “Oh, my dear. You have been watching too many movies. Nobody who knows me would ever believe whatever story you’ve concocted,” he said. “And everyone in this town knows me.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came. Nausea closed up my throat. I’d been an idiot, to believe I could break him with a weapon as flimsy as the truth. He had confidence, arrogance, a mighty armor made of toxic masculinity.
I felt sick; I felt helpless. I’d imagined I could destroy him, but I’d misjudged where his power came from. How deep his sickness ran.
He let me stand there, sputtering for something to say. Enjoying the sight of how angry I was, how impotent.
And then, a door creaked open, behind me.
“Hey, Dad,” Connor said.
Mr. Barrett’s jaw dropped. This time, I saw the fear in his eyes. Real fear: raw and thick. I could smell it. The scent of guilt, of shame.
“You told him that we know,” Connor said to me.
Mr. Barrett took a step forward. “Connor, you understand this is nonsense,” he said, but I could hear his confidence deflating fast.
“You said no one would believe me,” I interrupted his pleading. “But Connor does. Connor knows. Everything.”
Mr. Barrett’s eyes went wider than I’d ever seen them. His face tightened, then crumpled. I could see the struggle in his face over how to respond—to trivialize, to threaten, to humiliate, to beg. I saw him realize it would do no good. Connor believed.
His walls fell down. His armor melted away. All the metaphors failed him. Confidence, arrogance, toxic masculinity—none of it could shield him from the pain of having his son understand exactly what a monster he was.
Connor didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes did all the talking, and what smoldered there was raw hate. Contempt. Revulsion. Mr. Barrett took a step back, as if physically feeling the force of his son’s disgust.
Connor saw him for what he really was—and for the first time, so did Mr. Barrett. The mirror his son held up to him, the pure power of his loathing, showed Mr. Barrett the monster he’d spent so long pretending he wasn’t. I could see it hit home. Saw his eyes fill up with tears.
“Who else?” Connor asked.
Mr. Barrett didn’t budge, or speak. So much passed between their eyes in that instant. How the balance of power between father and son had been forever shifted. How Mr. Barrett’s monstrous actions had cost him the most important thing in his life.
“Who else did you hurt like that?” Connor was shouting now.
“Sheffield?” I asked. “What you did to Solomon, did you do it to him too?”
Mr. Barrett stammered, “Connor, I—I—” But he was all out of words.
“You’re a fucking monster,” Connor said. He shouldered his duffel bag, and headed for the steps.
“Ash,” Mr. Barrett said, his mouth slack, his face shattered.
It was what I’d prayed for. The unbreakable monster, broken. But whatever pride or victory or happiness I had hoped to feel was dwarfed by Connor’s pain.
I followed him down the stairs, and out into the cool dark.
“Are you okay?” I asked, once we were a block away.
“Ash, I will never be okay.” Connor waved to where Solomon sat on the hood of my car. “Let’s go talk to Sheffield. See if we can stop some arson.”