I think Dad cried a lot after that, but I only ever saw it the one time. And that one time was enough. The look on his face, not any worry I had about Mom, was what made me shove my head under my pillow that night and sob silently until Ifell asleep. It was the last time I ever did. I didn’t shed a tear when Dad got arrested for turning the town upside down and shaking the money out. I didn’t cry when Ludwig tore my fingers off and tried to kill me. I didn’t cry now, when it felt like every movement was wrong, every option a trap.
I had found the secret to Dad’s magic: crying was useless. A waste of time and energy better spent fixing the thing that upset you in the first place. Do menial outdoor chores for your neighbors to assuage your guilt. Scare off the tourists. Get rid ofDead Men Walking. Dad only cried about Mom because there was nothing to be fixed, nothing he could do. There was only pain building and building and building on itself, and with no release, he had been overwhelmed.
I wonder sometimes if he had felt it coming and knew, one day, he wouldn’t be strong enough to stop it.
I wonder if he feared it.
22
After we got home, every one of Dad’s words was tight-lipped, every sentence short. He rearranged the boxes crowding the trailer, making a slightly neater path from the kitchen to the bedrooms. He told me to start working on my homework. Wanted to know if Grim was coming over after Sadie got off work. Then, when it seemed like he didn’t have anything left to say, he grabbed his axe and went out to chop down the saplings that had begun to creep up on the trailer. It was the first time he’d touched the axe since coming home; before prison, I only saw him clearing brush on quiet, overcast days when no birds sang in the trees.
I watched him until Sadie came home, and then a little after.
“How long’s he been like that?” she asked, voice flat. She still didn’t look at me when she spoke.
“Couple of hours,” I said. Six. He had been out there for six hours, cutting anything he could find. I’d finished my homework. I’d cracked open one of the fantasy tomes Grim had left at our place and read some of that. Even silly fantasy jargon couldn’t distract me today.
I made dinner for all of us, ravioli with some broccoli and a near-expired tray of watermelon Sadie had picked up on her way home. Dad acted like his usual bright-eyed self, and though Sadie appeared to play along with it, she frowned and watched him carefully every time he looked down at his plate.
Sadie retreated to her bedroom at 9:25, but I didn’t know if she’d be able to conk out like she usually did. Dinner must have helped Dad find his groove again, because he smiled and kissed my head when he said he was tired, too, and asked me if I wanted my room back yet.
I didn’t believe him. He was lying with that smile and that happiness. He didn’t want to be around me; that’s why he’d spent six hours outside, instead of talking to me. He thought I hated him. I didn’t tell him otherwise.
“I’m good.” I patted my blanket and pillow on the couch. “I’m going to sleep soon, too.”
The shadow that swept across his expression told me everything. Yes, he had been lying. Yes, he knew I was lying.No, he wouldn’t say anything about it, because even though none of us could risk this family getting in deeper trouble than we already were, and he didn’t trust me not to get in more, he knew I’d been right this afternoon.
But the shadow passed. After a moment he said, “Okay. Sleep well.”
“I will.”
Artemis was right. It didn’t feel good.
Dad put his hand on my head, over the spot where he’d kissed me, then disappeared into the smaller bedroom. I waited a few minutes for another laugh out ofCheers, then flipped the TV off and grabbed the Chevelle’s keys from the stack of boxes by the door. I paused there, where Dad’s axe rested against the wall. I reached for it. Brushed the wooden handle.
A spike of fear drilled my chest. I whipped my hand back and hurried out the door.
A cold mist had settled along Valleywine Road. My butt went numb against the Chevelle’s chilled seats long before I reached the outskirts of town. The streets were empty of the living and the dead, and lights shone in every window. I thought I saw Buster’s truck turn a corner, so I crept along a little more carefully. Even the Chevelle’s engine seemed to rumble a bit softer tonight, like it was afraid to draw attention.
The Cherry Motel was at the town limits, with a Marathon gas station on the opposite side of the road and long empty cornfields straight out to the horizon behind it. The motel’s neon sign, with its big double cherries, looked like an advertisement for a strip joint. It was a squat brown building with a long line of rooms. There used to be a dead man holding an empty dog collar on the end of a leash near the motel check-in, but he wasn’t there anymore. TheDead Men Walkingvan sat outside room ten, on the south end of the building, and next to it was the SUV. I parked a few doors down and cut the engine.
TheDMWteam and their crew would have rented more than one room. I couldn’t walk up to the front office to get any information; even with a good lie, they would assume I was an obsessed fan. No telling how many of those they’d already had. I could knock on every door until I found them, but I didn’t want to get someone who was going to automatically call the cops on me. Their stuffy producer probably would. The camera people had been following the producer around like puppies since they’d gotten here, so I doubted they’d listen to me without telling him. Eric would tell Tad. I wasn’t sure about Mike or Leila, but they had gone along with everything else up to this point.
Tad’s sheer narcissism was going to be the only thing that saved me. If I could get him talking, maybe he wouldn’t call thepolice. And if, God help me, I begged, it might stroke his ego enough to show mercy.
I heard yelling. The door to seven swung open and banged against the wall, and Leila stalked out. Her clothes looked pristine but her hair was ruffled.
“Christ, Tad, you’re such a pig! I am so tired of all your weird bullshit! We almostdied!”
Tad appeared in the doorway, pulling his shirt back on. “At least I’m not a fucking iceberg!” he yelled back. “Yeah, go tell Mike, I’m sure he wants to hearallabout your gross woman problems!”
Leila slipped into nine. Tad stood outside seven for another moment, sneering, then went back inside and slammed the door behind him.
I hopped out of the Chevelle and started down the sidewalk. The wind pinched at the tips of my ears and nose. Room seven was quiet. Eight was, too.
“Hey!”
I jumped and spun. Tad was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded.
