CHAPTER 162: FREE MAN WALKING. EMMA

Getting released from Lincoln Heights PD was like escaping the world’s worst escape room—no clues, no snacks, and your prize for winning is a criminal record. Sterling waved his legal wand, the judge set bail at a price you could find in a moderately offensive vending machine (thank you, spotless record), and suddenly I was free.

Free, except for the minor detail where I’d turned a vice principal into emotional sashimi.

Madison was waiting by her car, looking like a trust fund angel who’d taken a wrong turn on the way to Coachella. The second she saw me, she launched herself at me like we were in a Nicholas Sparks movie—if Nicholas Sparks had a Chapter about felony assault and questionable morals.

"Oh my God, are you okay? Did they hurt you? Do you need anything?"

"Babe, relax. I’m fine. They don’t torture teenagers anymore—it’s bad for the Yelp reviews."

She pulled back, scanning my face like she expected to see teardrop tattoos and a prison nickname. "Your mom was terrifying in there. Like, legitimately terrifying. She made Sterling look soft."

"Yeah, turns out my adoptive mother’s been planning homicides since before I hit puberty. Fun family trivia."

Tommy and Connor had ghosted—probably allergic to consequences. But Madison stayed. Points for loyalty, even if it came accessorized with a designer purse worth more than my house.

"So what now?" she asked once we slid into her car. The leather seats were so soft they felt like they’d been hand-stitched by retired angels.

"Now? I go home, deal with whatever Carter-family soap opera is brewing, and try not to dwell on the fact that I just speedran my way from invisible to headline villain in one period."

The car purred to life—a sound that screamed my father owns car dealerships and possibly three politicians.

"You know the whole school’s talking about it, right? Connor’s TikTok has, like, two hundred thousand views."

"Of course it does. Violence with a side of privilege is internet crack."

"You’re not privileged," she pointed out, easing into traffic. "You’re like...the opposite of privileged."

"Yeah, but I’m dating you. Privilege by association. They’ll frame me as the gold-digging psycho who snapped."

"Is that what you think you are?" Her voice was careful—like she was checking if the bomb was live.

"Nah. I’m just a brother who solved a problem. Permanently."

The ride was weirdly normal after that. Madison cranked up her playlist—smooth R&B and breakup anthems that suddenly felt autobiographical—while the city scrolled by. Same streets I’d walked as a nobody for sixteen years. Now? I was the guy who rearranged a predator’s bone structure.

Character development’s a bitch.

When we pulled up to my house, I watched Madison take in the view again—the downgrade from her marble-and-fountain mansion to our mailbox that leaned left like it had political opinions and a front door that looked one thunderstorm away from retirement. But she didn’t say anything.

Credit for that.

"You coming in?" I asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"Always."

That got me a smile that did things to my chest I was actively trying to murder. This girl had no right making me feel feelings when I was supposed to be auditioning for the role of ruthless antihero.

Inside, the house was quiet. Mom’s car was gone—probably pulling a double at the hospital because America’s healthcare system runs on nurse exhaustion and passive-aggressive break room coffee.

Sarah was in the living room, and the second she saw me, she launched herself across the couch like a squirrel discovering Red Bull.

"Holy fucking shit, Peter!"

"Language," I said automatically—because apparently I’m a hypocrite now.

"You put Mr. Holloway in the ICU! It’s all over social media! Everyone’s calling you the Nerd Avenger!"

"The Nerd Avenger? Really? That’s the best they could come up with? No ’Clark Kent on steroids’? No ’Bill Nye with body count’?"

Sarah’s eyes were wide, caught somewhere between hero worship and that I-might-actually-be-related-to-a-psychopath look.

"Is it true what they’re saying? That he was... doing things to Emma?" She did not know the exact details and was green as everyone else in school and Emma wasn’t in the state to explain anything to my sister

The air got heavy enough to register on the Richter scale. Madison’s hand slid into mine.

"Yeah," I said simply. "It’s true."

Sarah’s face cycled through seventeen emotions in three seconds—anger, shock, satisfaction—basically the emotional version of scrolling Netflix for an hour and watching nothing.

"Good. Then he deserved worse."

"Sarah—"

"No!" She stood up, all five-foot-nothing of teenage fury, looking like she was about to unionize on my behalf. "If someone tried that with me, I’d want you to do the same thing. Hell, I’d want you to do worse."

"Where’s Emma?" I asked, because feelings are exhausting and I needed to deflect.

"In her room. She hasn’t come out since Mom brought her home. She’s... processing."

I nodded. "I’ll check on her."

"Peter?" Her voice went smaller, like she’d just realized the world was more Game of Thrones than Full House. "Are you gonna be okay? Like, legally?"

"Yeah. I’ve got a good lawyer. It’ll work out."

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway. Eighteen years old and already learning the hard lessons: sometimes the system fails, sometimes violence is the answer, and sometimes your brother becomes both a cautionary tale and a viral meme.

I headed upstairs, Madison trailing behind me like a designer shadow with better hair. Emma’s door was closed, but there was music playing inside—not her usual hyperpop migraine fuel. Something slower. Sadder. The kind of soundtrack you play while staring dramatically out a rain-streaked window in a coming-of-age movie.

I knocked. "Em? It’s me."

Silence. Then: "Come in."

She was curled up on her bed, still in her school clothes, looking smaller than I’d seen her since we were kids. Her face was puffy from crying, but her eyes were clear when they met mine—like she’d decided being broken was boring.

"Hey," I said, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Hey." Madison stayed by the door, reading the room like she was prepping for the SATs. This was sibling territory.

"You okay?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid question but needing to start somewhere.

Emma let out a laugh that was more deflated balloon than humor. "My brother just destroyed a teacher for me. I don’t know what I am."

"You’re safe. That’s what matters."

"Atop the blackmailing he even had photos, Peter. Of me. At that party where I—" Her voice cracked. "He was gonna ruin my whole life over some stupid pills and other drugs if I didn’t..."

"But he didn’t. And he won’t. Ever."

She uncurled slightly, eyes older than fifteen had any right to be. "You went crazy. Like, actually insane. Jack Morrison told everyone you were like... a whole different person... they’re saying other mean things about you without even knowing the full context, Pete. I also saw think you were different... are you fine... like the Little Brother I know?"

"Yeah," I said. "Guess you could say I upgraded. Some people get glow-ups. I got a rage mode."

"I was angry. People do extreme shit when they’re angry."