I rise smoothly, but I don’t step back, staying close enough that she knows I’m not done with her but also so that, if she chooses to, she can lean on me for support.
“We’re going to have this conversation like adults. No accusations or assumptions.”
Too late for that.
Peyton wipes her palms on her jeans. “Fine. I…went there because of the guy at the festival. The mean one who called me by my mother’s name. He said…something about her that didn’t make any sense, and no one has been willing to tell me anything about her.”
“What did he say before I got there?” John asks quietly.
Peyton swallows. “That everyone else knows who she really was. Except me.”
Silence descends, dense and suffocating. I’m going to be having a talk with John about what he’s been keeping from me. I should have been immediately notified when this happened and not hearing it second hand.
John nods, grimacing before he stands. He rubs a hand across his mouth, like he’s trying to scrub years off his face.
Pace shifts uncomfortably. I stare at the woman, who looks as if she is shrinking in her chair. There is hurt behind her eyes, but she still has that stubborn tilt to her chin. My chest aches at the sight of seeing her so small but trying to be strong. She shouldn’t have to be. I’ve dug into every facet of her life.
The hell her life has been, struggling for basic necessities. Constantly moving from one crappy apartment to the next. In and out of homeless shelters when her mother couldn’t afford to pay the rent. Barely able to afford groceries or clothes.
“You’re not ready for the full story,” John finally says, sadness in his eyes.
Peyton’s expressions breaks. “Then when? When do I get answers? When do I get to know who she was and what made the town hate her so much?”
“When I think you can handle it,” he says.
She shakes her head. “I handled going out there. I handled them telling me that my mother was good for nothing. A whore. An embarrassment.”
“No,” I cut in. “They should never have said that to you.”
Her eyes narrow. “Stop treating me like I am fragile.”
“You’re not fragile,” I say, voice rough. “You’re reckless. And if you keeping moving like this, keep pushing, you are going to regret it. The truth is bloody and dangerous. It will shatter you.”
Silence falls at my words. Peytons’ breath leaves her body in a shaky exhale.
John looks ready to throw me out of the room.
Pace mutters, “Jesus, Colter.”
But I don’t take it back.
I don’t soften it.
She needs to hear it.
“You think people hate your mother because she made some bad choices?” I keep going. “You think this is about a teenage crush or some small-town gossip?”
She blinks rapidly—confused.
“There’s more,” I say. “A hell of a lot more that you don’t know. That a lot of people don’t know. That we kept hidden.”
Peyton’s voice is a whisper when she speaks. “Then tell me.”
John steps in. “Not like this. Not when you’re this…riled.”
My fingers curl into fists. “Did you once think about someone else other than yourself when you went looking for the truth?” I hiss. “Did you think about how John would feel about you digging up old bones? Or the Mastersons? Or did you only think about your own feelings?”
“Enough, Colter!” John snaps at seeing the tears in his daughter’s eyes.
