Standing out on the lawn of my childhood home, I was still carrying with me that strange mix of fear and resolve. I didn’t know what I expected to get out of this. I just knew that if I wanted to move on with my life, I had to talk to him.
Getting out of Boston had been easy. Getting out of Caine’s building, not so much. Upon his departure for work that morning, I wrote him a good-bye note, and I headed down to the front desk. Arnie and Sly were waiting for me.
They tried to detain me, but when I reminded them that was illegal, they let me go. It took me twenty minutes of arguing with them before they realized I meant it when I said I’d call the police on their asses. I felt bad since they’d been protecting me for the last few weeks, but once I’d made this decision, no one, and I meant no one, was standing in my way. Still, as I made my way to the bus station I couldn’t shake the paranoia that had come as a result of my attack. I found myself constantly glancing over my shoulder and imagining the burn of someone’s stare on the back of my neck.
That and the fact that the bus journey was not fun on my wounded body meant I wasn’t in the greatest shape by the time I got to my parents’ home.
Our house had been very modest. My mom bought it when it was just the two of us and she bought it on her teacher’s pay. My father hadn’t contributed much over the years, jumping from one job to the next, so we’d never left. It was a one-story, two-bedroom house with a wood-clad triangle brow that sat over the tiny porch. The freshly painted gray wood was mimicked in the attached garage’s door, the banister on the porch, and entrance. The house itself was built of quaint pale blond brick. It wasn’t much but it was well kept. Even the lawn had been freshly mowed. Clearly my father was more capable of looking after himself than he’d ever let on in the past.
I lifted a hand to tuck away the hair that was blowing in my face and I was surprised to find I was trembling.
Shaking that off, I took a deep breath to try to ease the pressure on my chest. It felt like it was closing on me.
“Come on, Alexa.”
Somehow I made it onto the porch and I could hear a television playing from inside. I rang the doorbell. The television noise muted and I heard footsteps coming toward the door.
I was going to be sick.
For some reason there was a painful twinge in my wound.
The door swung open and a tall, good-looking man stood before me. He was slim with broad shoulders, and he had a full head of black hair peppered generously with gray that contrasted sharply with his bright gray eyes. He looked a heck of a lot like Edward Holland. Even in cheap clothes he seemed to radiate a sense of class and money. His features slackened with shock. “Alexa?”
My lips felt numb. Somehow I managed to force out, “Hi, Dad.”
“What are you doing here?” He stepped back, allowing me to enter the small living room. A closed door on the left-hand side of the room led into the kitchen. The kitchen led onto a backyard that was massive in comparison to the house. The door directly opposite the front door led into a small corridor, which led onto two small double bedrooms and a family bathroom.
I gazed around, hit by a wave of memories.
The furniture was the same after all these years. Pictures of us as a family still hung on the walls.
“Lexie?”
Our eyes met.
I hadn’t expected to find our home … well, still as our home. I’d built this picture up in my head of the place being stripped back, barren of us, erased by everything that was him. But no. Mom was everywhere here.
This had momentarily distracted me, but reading the wary confusion on his face, I wondered if any emotion he ever showed was actually real.
He gestured to the couch. “Take a seat, Lexie.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“What’s this about? I haven’t seen you since your mother’s funeral and I think this is the most you’ve spoken to me in seven years. What’s going on?”
“I was attacked,” I blurted out.
My father paled. “Attacked?”
I nodded. “I was leaving work and a guy stabbed me. He was wearing a hoodie and I didn’t see his face … We haven’t caught him, but the police are investigating it and think the attack might have been premeditated.”
“Stabbed?” He stumbled toward me, his hands reaching out unsurely.
I flinched back from his touch and he froze.
“When?” he whispered.
“A few weeks ago.”
“A few weeks ago? Shouldn’t you be at home recovering?”
“I had to come see you.”
“What was so urgent—”
“The police asked me if there was anyone in my life that had a grudge against me.”
Realization dawned on my father with the impact of a swift kick to the gut. He slumped down onto his armchair and stared up at me in horror. “You think I had something to do with this?”
I quashed the guilt his reaction stirred in me. “No. But for a brief moment I did. I wondered to myself what my leaving did to Mom and to your relationship. For a moment I thought about the man who was capable of leaving a woman to die and I wondered if blaming his disloyal daughter for his own crapshoot of a life could make him unstable.”
“That’s—”
“Far-fetched, I know.” I sighed and sat down wearily on the sofa. “But I’ve been lying in bed these last few weeks and I can’t get it out of my head that the thought even crossed my mind. I’ve been protected and coddled in a friend’s apartment, scared of what’s outside, but even more scared of how messed up I am over you. So I had to come see you.”
Silence fell between us.
Finally my father cleared his throat. His voice was thick. “I am not this monster you’ve made me up to be in your head.”