Andrus Ovega came home drunk and angry, with a gun in his right hand.

He’d managed to get the ‘84 Firebird parked in the garage without totalling it out or getting arrested by the cops. If he had been arrested, it wouldn’t have been the first time. He’d make a quick call to his father and be released with no real consequence. It paid to be the son of a senator.

He staggered through the dark garage and found the service door to the house by memory. The lights were on inside. Music too. Classical music. His mother’s selection. Dishes clinked and chimed down the hallway in the dining room.

He heard the sounds, but only as a quiet harmony supporting a soloist. And the soloist, loud and centered, was the words Leon had said to him earlier that night. 

...

Please subscribe to keep reading.