Chapter 3: The Price of Justice

I pulled up Lucas’s address, called a rideshare, and headed over. Even from a block away, I could hear the shouting—glass breaking, doors slamming, voices raised in anger. The Frost house was in chaos. I braced myself before walking up the drive.

A woman’s voice rang out, shrill and sobbing: “Frank, I’m telling you, Lucas is my son. No matter what kind of bastard he was, he’s still your boy! If you don’t get justice for him, you’re not a man!”

The man—Frank, I guessed—sounded exhausted, his voice rough. “If you hadn’t spoiled him so much, would he have turned out this way? So young, only interested in chasing girls. We spent over twenty grand on abortions—the hospital even gave us a plaque. Now he’s gone and done himself in—who else is to blame?”

The woman shot back, her words like knives. “No matter how much of a player my son was, he was still better than you! At least he knew not to keep the baby. Not like you! Sleeping with your assistants and letting them have kids! I swear, if you don’t take care of this, I’ll report you! All your mistresses will be ruined!”

I shook my head, standing outside on the porch, listening to the storm inside. Honestly, they deserved each other. Dysfunctional, toxic, but somehow a perfect match.

When the shouting finally died down, I knocked on the door. A woman answered—her face taut with too many cosmetic surgeries, her eyes sharp and cold. She looked me up and down, sizing me up. Her perfume was thick and cloying, almost covering the sourness in the air.

I bowed a little, trying to look respectful, and said, “Ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m Lucas’s classmate. I came today because..."

Inside, the house was heavy with the scent of expensive candles and something sour beneath it, like old secrets and fresh grief. My words hung in the air, waiting for her reaction. I felt the tension coil between us, thick and electric.