Spark For Justice

Myra's P.O.V

"Hold on," I said, pushing away from the kitchen island, the marble cool against my palms as I braced my weight. "Just give me a second."

I sucked a sharp, deep breath into my lungs, holding it until the tightness in my chest eased, before letting it out in a slow exhale.

I couldn't handle him dumping another sack of depressing information onto my lap right now. I needed a minute to think.

Just a few seconds for the dust to settle. The sheer shock of Landon standing in my kitchen was already an anchor pulling me under, but hearing that our father had been murdered threatened to drown me completely.

"You still drink tea?" I asked, my voice flat as I forced my legs to move toward the upper cabinets.

"Yeah. I do," Landon replied from the island. His voice sounded heavier than I remembered, stripped of its old boyish rhythm.

I reached for two ceramic mugs, the porcelain clinking sharply in the quiet room as I set them down. My hands shook slightly as I lifted the kettle, filling it with water and flicking the switch. I could feel his eyes tracking my every movement, like a weight against my back.

It was surreal. A few minutes ago, I would have sworn the man downstairs was an impostor wearing my brother’s face. But watching the way he sat, the slight hunch of his shoulders, it was actually him.

"You know you can take off your hoodie now," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on the steam beginning to rise from the spout.

"All right," he murmured.

The soft rustle of fabric followed. I poured the boiling water over the tea bags, watching the amber color bleed through the water, dark and murky. I carried his mug over, setting it down with a muted thud before retreating to my side of the island.

I sank into my stool, wrapping both hands around my own mug, desperate to absorb the heat into my frozen fingers.

"Thanks," Landon muttered.

He mirrored my movement, wrapping his palms around the ceramic, but he didn't drink. He just stared into the rising steam.

A hundred questions crawled in the back of my throat, sharp and itching to get out, but they jammed against each other, fighting for release. I didn't know which one to pull free first.

Looking across at him, the reality of his absence hit me in waves. Underneath the shadow of his hood, his face looked weathered. Dark, hollow circles ringed his eyes, and a thick, rough stubble shadowed his jaw.

The Landon I grew up with never let a single stray hair mar his skin. He had been meticulous, clean-shaven to a fault. Now, he looked like a man who had been running for a very long time.

"You said you knew Dad was murdered." I held his gaze, refusing to let him look away.

Landon froze. The mug stopped halfway to his lips, and he slowly lowered it back to the counter, the liquid sloshing against the rim.

"I want you to tell me everything you know," I demanded, my voice tightening.

He let out a long, ragged sigh, a puff of breath escaping his parted lips.

"Dad had some dealings with the wrong people, Myra. During the last few weeks we were together, I could tell he was hiding something. Some guy even came to the house once, demanding that Dad give him what was owed to him. I was in the hallway, so I didn't catch the whole conversation."

My brows drew together, a sharp line forming between them.

"Do you remember who the guy was? What he looked like?"

Landon shook his head, a grim, humorless smile touching his lips.

"I don't. I'd never seen him before in my life. Dad assured me afterward that it was just an old business partner."

"Is that all you know?" The words slipped out sharper than intended, laced with disappointment and a rising, bitter irritation. He had claimed he knew why our father was killed.

But this was barely a scrap of information.

"I'm sorry, Myra," Landon said, his voice dropping an octave, tinged with a warning. "But these people are way higher up than you think. They're dangerous. I wish I could have spoken to Dad more, to really understand what he had gotten himself into. But I couldn't."

I looked down at my tea, the surface twisting with my reflection. This didn't give me the closure I craved. It didn't give me a name, a place, or a target to bring justice to our father's killers.

But instead of dampening my resolve, it felt like lighter fluid poured over a spark.

A sudden, fierce heat awoke in my chest, a desperate, ugly hunger for retribution. If my brother wanted to live like a stray, terrified cat, let him. He was a coward. I wasn't.

I gripped my mug until my knuckles turned white, raising it to my lips to take a searing sip. "What do you think Dad took from them?"

"Money, probably," Landon muttered, staring at the counter. "It’s always about the money."

We finished the rest of our tea in total silence, the only sound the occasional scrape of ceramic on stone.

Once the mugs were empty, I stood up, rinsed them thoroughly in the sink, and set them on the drying rack. The mechanical movement kept my mind from spinning out of control.

"Do you have anywhere to spend the night?" I asked, turning back to him.

Landon lowered his head, his cheeks tingling with faint, embarrassment.

"No, not really. I was staying out in Kansas, and I sort of came here in a rush. But don't worry about me. I can find a cheap motel to crash at for the night."

I shook my head, cutting him off.

"That's ridiculous. It's already past midnight. Why don't we eat, and then you can take the couch?" I nodded toward the small grey sofa in the living room.