Another clink, followed by a muffled sound that might be a sob.
I edge toward the kitchen doorway, peering around the corner, and freeze.
My father sits at the small table, head bowed to a nearly empty bottle of amber liquid. He’s over the limit, and if someone else finds him like this…
I step inside. “Dad?”
He looks up, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. For a moment, he doesn’t seem to recognize me. Then his face softens in a way I haven’t seen in years. “There’s my little girl.”
TWELVE
DAKOTA
I approach cautiously, taking the chair beside him. “It’s still early. You should sleep.”
“Keep thinking about your mother. Your sister.” He stares into the bottle like it holds answers. “I failed you all.”
The gnawing knot I’ve carried since childhood in my chest loosens.
“We’re still here,” I say, unsure if I’m reassuring him or myself. “We’re alive.”
“But for how long?” His gaze lifts to meet mine again, and for a second I see past the bloated, bitter man to the father who once carried me on his shoulders. A ghost from my earliest memories, before Amelia got sick, before everything changed. “I was supposed to protect you. Keep you safe.”
His hand darts to my face, and I jolt, but he doesn’t stop, cupping my cheek with unfamiliar gentleness.
“My little girl,” he murmurs. “You look so much like your grandmother. Same eyes.”
I stiffen, counting the seconds.
He smiles, nostalgic, then his face crumples. “I ruined everything. All of it. For nothing. I’m sorry.”
Could he mean it? After everything?
“Dad…” My voice breaks. “It’s?—”
He reaches for the bottle, and I probably make the biggest mistake I know I shouldn’t make.
I snatch it away. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”
“Dakota.” His voice drops an octave. “Give. It. Back.”
“Dad, please. You need to?—”
He lunges for the bottle, and I jerk backward, chair legs screeching against the tile floor. His eyes narrow on my hands before meeting my gaze.
I see the familiar flash before it happens. His hand connects with my face. A sharp crack that echoes in the small room.
I knew it was a mistake.
The bottle slips from my fingers, landing on the floor without breaking as heat blooms on my cheek.
It’s my fault.
“Oh God, Dakota, I’m sorry.” Horror flashes across his face, immediate and seemingly genuine. “I didn’t mean to. You—” His hands hover like he wants to check for damage, but knows better than to touch me again. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”
“It’s fine.” I cup my stinging cheek, blinking back tears. It wasn’t that hard. Barely a slap. Another accident. “I shouldn’t have taken it.”
“You always didn’t know what was right.” And just like that, the moment of care vanishes. “Your mother should teach you better.”
