Dressed to Kill // DNF

1.6

TW's: DV, blood

George stared at the back of the passenger seat as Phil drove him home. It had been a good few minutes since George had given the umbrella—and the note—to Clay, and the brunette already regretted it.

There'd been this gut wrenching feeling of nervousness in his stomach when he'd delivered it. He just wasn't used to thanking people. Because people had never done anything to him to be thanked for.

But alas, it was done and over with, and the guilt had subsided in George's gut.

He heard Phil clear his throat slightly, and he was looking at George through the rearview mirror when he looked up. Phil had a subtle grin displayed on his face.

"What?" George narrowed his eyes.

The butler's eyes returned to the road. "So," he started. "Clay?"

George crossed his arms. "That's his name, yes," he said skeptically.

"Huh," Phil said simply, saying no more than that.

The brunette brushed wet hair out of his eyes. "What?" George questioned again with an accusatory tone when he saw Phil's expression.

The man tried to conceal a chuckle with a cough. "Nothing! Clay just seems like a...rather interesting individual," he offered.

George huffed through his nose, his mind wandering back to Clay. "...That he is."

The car pulled into the long driveway, parking in the rather large garage. George unbuckled, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he got out of the car. Phil escorted him inside, and George padded towards the stairs quietly, intending to avoid his parents.

He really didn't want to have a conversation with them right now. Especially since he knew precisely what that conversation was going to be.

Sneaking up the steps, George cringed when he heard his father's voice. "George," he said flatly.

George halted, his shoulders tensing when he heard his father's tone. So his father also knew. Fantastic.

"Come downstairs," his father ordered, sounding calm. George knew, though, that he was anything but.

The boy walked down the steps slowly, stalling. A claustrophobic feeling clawed at his chest, not leaving him as he walked into the living room. He spotted his father sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded and his expression cold. Timidly, George sat down across from him.

"Yes, father?" George prodded, urging the man to get the conversation over with.

His father had no ounce of emotion in his eyes. "You know perfectly well why we're here, don't you, son?"

George swallowed thickly. "Yes, father."

"Did you do it on purpose?" His father besmirched.

George's eyebrows knitted together, confused as to why his father would ask such a thing. Obviously he didn't. "Of course not, father. What reason would I have?"

"You tell me," his father spat. "You left evidence on one of your other jobs as well. You left one of your knives that time," he said angrily. "So to me, yes, it looks like you've done this on purpose."

"It was a mistake-" George tried to reason.

His father stood up, pressing his hands down against the table. "We can't afford for you to make mistakes, George."

George stood up as well, his anger level rising. "I was thirteen!" He shouted. "I was a kid, and you were having me do this job," he spat.

The taller man glowered at his son from across the table. "What's your excuse now, then?" He demanded.