Dad is losing his mind.
He's pacing the living room furiously, his voice booming so loud I squirm.
Mum sits on the couch with her face buried in her hands, shaking her head.
I'm quietly seated on the opposite end of the sofa from Zayn.
He just sits there, unbothered, like he isn't the very source of Father's rage.
"I'm done with you, Zayn. Done!" Dad roars, waving the police report in the air. "Do you have any idea what this says? Battery! Property damage! A broken arm, a concussion, contusions, a destroyed flat-screen, a lamp, framed photos…"
"They mocked Ashleigh," Zayn cuts in. "They had it coming."
Dad's left eye twitches the same way Zayn's does when he's mad.
"Had it coming?" He repeats, incredulous. "That gives you the right to hospitalize two boys? You could go to jail,
