"That was weird," I mutter when he ends the call without waiting for a response.
His eyes darken. "I don't like it. Feels off."
"Everything feels off," I counter.
Nothing will be right again until we get her back…and I can't help feeling this is a monumental waste of time.
We've tried to get Dad to talk about it so many times, so sure there was more he knew that could help. It didn't work before, so why the hell would it work now?
Can we really take him away from here? From Mom? Get him off his meds—which sounds like a terribleand cruelidea—and then, what? Reopen old wounds? Make him relive all that past trauma? All for achancehe could have some tiny bit of information that could point us in the right direction.
Then the real question: can I even do this to him?
Am I willing to put my father through this for that tiny fraction of a chance?
A chill races through me, and I pull my arms in, shivering it off.
I know one thing that's true—if my dad was in his right mind and he knew what was at stake, he'd want to help. No matter what.
But knowing that doesn't make what we're doing any more morally sound.
Ellie hears them first, her ears pricking as she barks at the overgrown trailhead that leads to the house.
"It's okay, girl," Atty comforts her. "It's Julian. Remember Julian?" He reaches to give her some scratches around the ears. "You met him before."
He stands with me, and we walk the edge of the pond to meet them as they come through the trees and into the moonlight, the nurse's flashlight bobbing over the ground in front of Dad so he doesn't trip.
When he sees us, I know this is going to be so much fucking harder than I planned for.
There's no recognition in his flat stare, and though he doesn't seem irritable, it's clear he isn't exactly lucid, either.
"Oh, hello," he says. "You must be the visitors that…" He blinks, patting the nurse's hand where she has it on his arm. "That…"
"Beth," she supplies for him.
"Yes, the visitors that Beth mentioned. Funny place for a visit, though. Why not come back to the house?"
Atticus clears his throat. "Julian, we?—"
"No," I interrupt, pulling Atty aside, my voice low. "Could you give me a minute? I want to try to talk to him alone."
His brows draw together, but he nods, letting me take the lead.
I step up to face my father and extend a hand. "Hi, I'm Elijah."
He takes my hand, his grip dry and soft, strained. "Julian."
At least he knows that.
"Could we take a seat?" I indicate the flat crop of stone, and his nurse releases him to me.
Atticus crowds her, already whispering harsh questions while I lead my father around the pond to sit, and Ellie follows us, sniffing at Julian's pants and jacket.
"Is this your dog?"
"That's Eleven," I explain. "She belongs to a friend."
"Eleven?" he repeats, his eyes narrowing while he sits down. "Like the number?"
