I’m made of glass. One word, one sound could shatter me.
He picks up the phone. “Son.”
I try to say something, but the words catch in my throat. He looks worse than last time. There’s a fresh cut across his hairline, and as he talks it opens, a dribble of blood running down his forehead. His eyes have sunken, and I think his nose has been broken again.
They don’t like rich guys in jail.
Especially not my father, Walter Hart, founder of Memories of the Hart, Emerald Beach’s celebrity funeral home. Anyone who was anyone wanted to be buried by my dad. For a while when I was seven or so, he even had his own reality TV show where cameras followed our family and filmed Dad creating these crazy themed funerals. Elvis and golf and Cinderella, complete with an enormous pumpkin-shaped hearse leading a procession down the boardwalk.
That was before the story broke. Before Walter Hart the affable Tennessee businessman who made grief fun was revealed to be giving people ground-up cement and animal remains instead of their cremated loved ones, and selling the bodies on the black market. Shortly after Noah’s mother killed herself, an FBI investigation blew Dad’s dirty laundry wide open, and it was my family’s turn in the spotlight.
Dad’s not having the best time in prison. Southern charm can only get you so far. Even murderers and rapists and drug dealers have grandmothers they cremated. Grandmothers whose body parts later showed up in laboratories and plastination exhibits when Memories of the Hart was investigated. The man sitting on the other side of the glass is the shell of my father – his skin doesn’t fit properly, like all the bluster and bombast has been sucked out through his eyeballs.
“Hi, Dad.” I force the words out. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
“That’s my boy, always got something going on, got a scheme brewing. Just like your old man. How’s that fancy school of yours?” He flashes me the white-toothed smile that used to grace billboards. Dad’s so proud he got me into Stonehurst, even though with all his civil suits I can now only afford to stay there because of a scholarship.
I suck in a breath.You can do this. Find the words.“It’s good, Dad. I’ve been made captain of the track team. We have our first state meet in a couple of weeks. And I’m beating Noah in History. He’s pissed, but he’s so distracted with Mackenzie that he—”
“Mackenzie?” My father’s eyes narrow.
“Yeah.” I swallow. I hadn’t intended to mention her at all, but this place… it has a way of drawing secrets from me. “Mackenzie Malloy. She’s… um… she’s back at school.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. She’s alive?” The word sticks in his throat. “Mackenzie Malloy? God love her.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of a wild story, actually. Her parents are still missing, but she just showed up at school one day, and—”
SLAM.
My father’s fist pounds the glass. I leap back, my body reacting on instinct, even knowing he can’t hurt me.
What the hell?
Walter Hart never lashes out in violence. With his tongue, he’s inflicted wounds that will never heal. But even though he’s an ex-football player built like a tank, he’s never had to use his fists to get what he wanted when sheer force of personality was enough.
But Mackenzie’s name has stirred something in him – the caged animal lurking behind his genial facade. I stare through the glass at the man that raised me, and I don’t recognize him.
The guards leap forward and restrain him, but after a few stern words about behaving himself, they back off again. On my side, Comedian Guard cracks up laughing.
Dad picks up the phone again and glares at me through the glass. I think about the guard at the doorway, how easy it would be to turn around and leave without listening to what Dad’s about to say.
After a moment, I pick up the receiver from where it clattered to the ground and press it to my ear.
“I apologize for my outburst, son.” There’s the old Dad again – friendly and agreeable and utterly in control. “You surprised me, is all. I never expected to hear that name again. I thought we severed your connection to that family a long time ago.”
I don’t like the way he sayssevered, with an almost gleeful relish. “It’s just Mackenzie, Dad. Not her family. I don’t think—”
“Listen to me, boy. I know what’s best for you, and I can tell you that you don’t want to be mixed up with anyone who has the surname Malloy, no matter how pretty their mouth looks around your cock.”
That was so typical Dad. As much as he tries to smooth away the edge of his working-class upbringing, he always reveals himself in the end. It’s why we moved to Emerald Beach – Dad’s always been too big for his boots in Tennessee, and the flashy, wealth-obsessed culture of California called to him.
“Sure, Dad. I understand.” I don’t, but I remind myself he can’t do shit outside these walls.
“How are your college applications?”
“Fine. I have interviews for early entrance to Stanford and Harvard starting in a couple of weeks.” At the mention of the prestigious schools, a smile tugs at the corner of Dad’s mouth. He’s all about giving me the opportunities he never had. A real family man, except it’s a crock of shit.
“That’s my boy. You show them what the Harts are made of.” There’s that smile again – the megawatt grin he turned on whenever he was closing a sale. “I’m relying on you.”
