Rusty swallows the same way I had and recognition registers in his eyes.
No.
“That was Summer’s, my wife’s, Harlen’s mother.”
“Oh god.” My legs give way, and as I begin to fall, both men stop my bones from crumbling.
And when my eyes flick back to Rusty’s, I can already taste his torment.
He knows exactly what I’m about to tell him.
Days.
Months.
Years.
It felt like an entire century was spent speculating who had brutally murdered my mother, and as I look between my father and Cherry, I have the answer to the question that has been searing my flesh since I watched them lower her casket into that deep, dark hole.
I fall to the ground with Cherry and cradle her as she cries, “I’m so sorry, oh god. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Rusty stumble backward. His hands catch on the large dining table behind him. His eyes are glassy, though he doesn’t let a single tear escape.
After what feels like hours, though it could have only been a few short minutes, Rusty coughs. “What does that painting mean to you, sweet girl?” He asks the same question that was about to roll off the tip of my tongue.
Cherry throws her head back, and it connects with the wall behind her. Her skull crunches unbelievably loud, and she does it again. “Fuck, Cherry, baby. Stop.”
I place my hand behind her head in case she does it again.
“It-it-it was carved into the concrete in the basement I was held in.” It’s so hard to understand her through each guttural cry.
Turning over my shoulder, I watch my father’s neck flex as he clenches his teeth, his jaw tightening.
I inhale sharply, my bones aching when I ask, “Dad, how did you find Mom?” A shiver breaks out across the skin at the nape of my neck, and I wonder if I’m actually ready for the answer.
He makes a gurgled sound in his throat, then his eyes latch onto mine when he says, “The same way you found Cherry, son, except I was too late.”
I lose my fucking breath.
Cherry whimpers, more intense, brutal cries tearing through her throat, and I wrap my arms around her neck, pulling her into my shaky chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Fuck, even after what had happened to Cherry, why didn’t you tell me?”
Rusty runs his hands through the curls at the top of his head before pushing his palms down the length of his stubbled face in fury. “I couldn't, son.”
“Why the fuck not?” I yell, and at my raised voice, both Chase and Skinner bridge the open doors at the deck.
They stay there, standing, watching, ready to tear son and father apart.
Rusty takes a step toward me, and I push to my feet. Skinner sweeps in and drops next to his sister, pulling her under his arms where she continues to fall apart among the safety of her brother.
Mine and my father’s foreheads connect.
“Tell me, Harlen, tell me how you would have felt watching the girl you love,like that, fighting for her fucking life, and on the same night finding out what had happened to her, had happened to your mother, but I was too fucking late. That me–”He stabs himself in his chest with his finger, then he does it again and again and again until I wrap my hand around it, stopping him.
“Fuck, Dad, stop.”
He grinds his words out through his teeth like every syllable is more painful than the last. “That your father,herhusband, couldn’t fucking save her, that I was too late.”
