I can’t believe it. I just can’t. How is this possible? How could he have survived? I honestly thought I would never have to look at him or hear his voice again, and now here I am, trembling, reading the message over and over. How? And what am I supposed to do with this? He always had a genius for surprising me, and they were never good surprises. That much hasn’t changed.
I don’t owe him anything. I don’t even love him the way a daughter is supposed to love her father. I don’t trust him, either.
But.
It hangs over me, taunting me. That tiny glimmer of hope. The possibility that he’s telling the truth this time. That my mom is alive out there somewhere. Why would she go away and leave me with him? Why would she never try to reach out? Was she sick? Is she still sick? Or was he deliberately keeping her awayfrom me somehow? Yes, that feels right; that feels true. Exactly what he would do. And I’m supposed to help him now?
But if I don’t, I’ll never know what happened to her. I’ll never meet her. Just the tiny hope that I will one day is enough to set my mind on fire.
I set the phone in my lap and wrap my arms around myself, rocking back and forth the way I always wished my mom would rock me when I needed comfort. What do I do? Believe him? Trust him, after all he’s ever done is hurt me and lie and treat me like I’m nothing? Am I supposed to risk my safety for his sake?
Yes. And he knows I will, because he knows me. Maybe not my favorite color or my favorite song, and I would bet a fortune he doesn’t know my birthday off the top of his head. But he knows me, still. The same way he knows how his pawns will react to him. He understands human nature and knows how to twist it, too, if it means getting what he wants.
And here I am, giving it to him, deciding without hardly thinking about it. I am going to keep this a secret. I’m going to hide the phone and wait for more. He might be playing games, but I have to live with that, because the alternative is ignoring him and never finding out the truth about Mom. I don’t think I could live with that. Always knowing the truth was just beyond my reach, but I turned my back on it. It’s the same as turning my back on her.
I look around the bedroom, searching for somewhere to hide the phone. Under the mattress? That seems kind of obvious. In a shoebox, maybe? There are a few of them up on the shelf in the closet.
Then it hits me. I go back to the bathroom and reach under the sink for the box of tampons. That’s one place he’s not going to look. I tuck the phone under them, then return the box to the back corner. Maybe I’ll check it once a day, every other day, just to see if there’s anything new.
I have to lie down after all of this, so I do, staring at the ceiling, imagining a world where Dad isn’t dead… and neither is my mother. Who is in Dad’s grave? Anybody? What if he was at the funeral, watching from somewhere? That would be just like him, too. It would be a risk, but he would do it because it would mean he won. He probably stood there and laughed at the mourners scattering when shots were fired. For all I know, he is the one who fired them.
And maybe he was aiming not at me, but at Liam.
It’s all too much. My head hurts, and I close my eyes, trying to calm down before the pounding takes over. I can’t let Liam see me like this. He’ll know right away something is wrong.
I don’t even think about lunch. All I can do is watch the day pass by as the light coming through the window moves across the room. Outside there’s a world that I’m not part of. I think about the people at the bus stop, the people passing while I waited at the corner. They’re going through their normal day, while here I am, like the princess locked in the tower, trying like hell to make sense of the game that is her life when somebody keeps overturning the board and sending the pieces flying all over the place.
By the time there’s a knock at the door, I think I have a grip on all of this. I need to, that’s the thing. I can’t show him there’s anything wrong, anything even slightly abnormal. I can do that. I’ve spent my whole life lying, right? Pretending I was satisfied by whatever little crumbs Dad threw my way.
That’s the only way to keep myself safe. That’s what I have to do now. Otherwise, I’ll be even more screwed than I already am, which is really saying something.
I’m kind of amazed he never locked the door today. I guess he figures I’ll work harder than ever to prove I’m trustworthy. Meanwhile, there’s a secret phone hidden in the bathroom. It’s almost funny.
“Maggie roasted a chicken.” He seems to be in a pretty good mood when I join him in the kitchen. The penthouse is quiet now, almost eerily so after so much activity earlier. “The smell has been killing me.”
“Smells good.” Maybe I should tell him the truth, but what happens if I never find out where Mom is?You’re an idiot—he was never going to tell you.That might be true, but it might not. I don’t think I can take the chance. I couldn’t live with never knowing whether he was telling the truth or spinning yet another lie to keep me in line.
“You have to try the bisque,” Liam urges, unfolding a napkin in his lap. He looks painfully handsome in a black turtleneck that’s fitted enough to show off every ripple of his chest, shoulders, and arms. That, along with the scruff on his cheeks, makes it a challenge to keep from staring.
“This is incredible.” He takes another spoonful of the velvety, gleaming soup and closes his eyes once it’s in his mouth. The sound he makes intrigues me enough that I pick up my spoon to take a sip, then another.
“Sinful,” I murmur before going back for more. The flavor is incredible.
“I would ask how she makes it, but I don’t want to ruin a good thing by thinking too much about it. And I don’t need to know how much cream she uses,” he adds with a chuckle. Whatever information he got today put him in a very good mood. He wouldn’t be in such a good mood if he found out Dad is alive, would he? That thought almost makes me grin as I take more soup, and more. After a few days of eating gas station hot dogs and chips, this is beyond a treat.
“Here. Let me get that for you.” He bends over to pick up my spoon when I drop it on the floor.
“Sorry. I don’t know why that happened.” And I don’t know why my tongue feels so thick all of a sudden. “What kind of bisque was that?”
“Lobster and shrimp. Don’t tell me you’re allergic,” he replies, taking my bowl and setting it aside along with his.
“No…” So why do I feel so strange? I can barely keep my eyes open. He’s watching me now. He’s not eating. He’s just observing.
And I’m starting to lose focus. The room is dimmer. The air is so heavy, I have to fight to pull it into my lungs. “You…” My head feels so heavy. I can’t find the words. I can’t ask him if he drugged my soup.
But I know before I close my eyes and rest my forehead on the table that he definitely did. He drugged me. And he can just sit there and watch it take effect without giving a damn.
24
