Page 62 of The Intruder

I fit the key in the lock, hoping that once I get the door open, my father might leave me alone. But he’s just standing there, waiting for me to go inside. This is so embarrassing.

But maybe it’s good. Maybe once he sees my house, he’ll understand what I’m going through. Maybe he’ll feel like he needs to rescue me. Maybe he’ll step up and be a real father to me.

I take it as a good sign when I manage to get the door almost all the way open without knocking into any bottles or other garbage. My mom is already home—I can hear the TV—and when she hears the door opening, she calls out, “Guess what, Ella? I ordered pizza!”

Great. On the one night I’m not even remotely hungry.

Unfortunately, my father decides to follow me into the house. He sucks in a breath when he sees the state of our living room. He looks like he’s practically going to be sick, or maybe that’s just from the smell. My mom is sitting on the mattress smoking a cigarette, but she jumps off the sofa and puts it out when she sees my father come into the house.

“Ella!” she cries. “I didn’t know you were bringing company! You should have told me!”

My father stiffens. “Desiree, I need to talk to you about your daughter.”

Your daughter. Not a good sign.

My mother is making adjustments to her dirty work uniform, as if that’s the problem. It’s not like tucking in her shirt is going to change the fact that our house is a disaster.

“I am so sorry, John.” She glares at me. “What did she do this time?”

“She was creeping around the back of my house two nights ago.” My father’s jaw tightens. “And then today, she came to my office and pretended to be Brittany. As you can imagine, it was very upsetting.”

“Of course! I am so sorry!” My mother wipes her hands on her tan work slacks. “Ella, what on earth got into you?”

I am so sick of this. I am so sick of the lies and pretending. Now that everyone is here, in one room, I refuse to lie anymore. I’m going to force them to come clean. One way or another, we’re going to be one big happy family.

Even if I have to take out my knife to make it happen.

“I know that Dr. Carter is my father,” I say.

All the color drains out of his face. “What?”

“Ella,” Mom snaps at me, “where on earth did you get a ridiculous idea like that?”

I lift my chin. “I found my birth certificate you were hiding from me.”

“Jesus Christ,” my father says, running a hand through his hair.

I look between the two of them. My parents—together in one room like I always dreamed. Except my mother looks furious and my father looks… Well, I’m not even sure. He looks a little dazed.

“Ella,” my mother says. “Dr. Carter is not your father. My God, how could you think that?”

She says it with such authority. If I didn’t see my birth certificate, I would think she was telling the truth. “You’re lying. I saw it. My father is named John Carter.”

“Right,” she says, seemingly giving up and relighting her cigarette. “He is. Your father is named John Carter, but this isn’t him. It’s another guy with the same name.”

Her words are like a slap in the face. Could it be true? I was so sure this man had to be my father when I saw the birth certificate, but John and Carter are both pretty common names, I guess. It didn’t even occur to me that it could be another John Carter.

Except so many things don’t make sense. How does Dr. Carter know who I am then? Why is he acting so weird around me?

“I am so sorry, John,” my mom says to Dr. Carter, who apparently is not my father. Lucky him.

She walks him to the door, and he looks like he can’t wait to get out of here. When I brought him home, I had this idea in my head that maybe he was going to save me, but that is not going to happen. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, which I guess is fair if he’s not related to me at all.

As soon as Dr. Carter is gone and the door is closed behind him, my mother turns on me. I brace myself for her to start screaming at me and maybe throw me into the closet. She might even hit me. But instead, she bursts out laughing.

“Oh, Lord!” she cries, gasping for air. “Ella, did you really think that man was your father? Do you think if you had a father like that, you would be so dumb?”

My face burns. “I don’t understand. How come he knew who I was? And who you are?”