Love You More: A Novel

Hence, the acetylene torch, which, I have to say, got the job done.

I turned it off. Closed the tanks, rewrapped the hose, and hung up the work gloves and safety goggles.

I tossed the melted cellphone, now cooled, inside my duffel bag to reduce my evidence trail. Police would be here soon enough. When chasing fugitives you always visited all past haunts and known acquaintances, which would include my father.

I straightened and, my first order of business completed, finally faced my dad.

The years were catching up with him. I could see that now. His cheeks were turning into jowls, heavy lines creasing his forehead. He looked defeated. A formerly strong young man, deflated by life and all the dreams that never came true.

I wanted to hate him, but couldn’t. This was the pattern of my life: to love men who didn’t deserve me, and, knowing that, to yearn for their love anyway.

My father spoke. “They say you killed your husband.” He started to cough, and it immediately turned phlegmy.

“So I’ve heard.”

“And my granddaughter.” He said this accusingly.

That made me smile. “You have a granddaughter? That’s funny, because I don’t remember my daughter ever receiving a visit from her grandfather. Or a gift on her birthday, or a stocking stuffer at Christmas. So don’t talk to me about grandchildren, old man. You reap what you sow.”

“Hard-ass,” he said.

“I get it from you.”

He slammed down his cup. Amber liquid sloshed. I caught a whiff of whiskey and my mouth watered. Forget a circular argument that would get us nowhere. I could pull up a chair and drink with my father instead. Maybe that’s what he’d been waiting for the summer I’d been fourteen. He hadn’t needed a child to work for him, he’d needed a daughter to drink with him.

Two alcoholics, side by side in the dim lighting of a run-down garage.

Then we would’ve both failed our children.

“I’m taking a car,” I said now.

“I’ll turn you in.”

“Do what you need to do.”

I turned toward the Peg-Board on the left side of the workbench, dotted with little hooks bearing keys. My father climbed off his stool, standing to his full height before me.

Tough guy, filled with the false bravado of his liquid buddy Jack. My father had never hit me. As I waited for him to start now, I wasn’t afraid, just tired. I knew this man, not just as my dad, but as half a dozen jerks I confronted and talked down five nights a week.

“Dad,” I heard myself say softly. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a trained police officer, and if you want to stop me, you’re going to have to do better than this.”

“I didn’t raise no baby killer,” he growled.

“No. You didn’t.”

His brow furrowed. In his fuzzy state, he was having problems working this out.

“Do you want me to plead my innocence?” I continued. “I tried that once before. It didn’t work.”

“You killed that Howe boy.”

“No.”

“Police said so.”

“Police make mistakes, as much as it pains me to say that.”

“Then why’d you become a cop, if they’re no good?”

“Because.” I shrugged. “I want to serve. And I’m good at my job.”

“Till you killed your husband and little girl.”

“No.”

“Police said so.”

“And round and round we go.”

His brow furrowed again.

“I’m going to take a car,” I repeated. “I’m going to use it to hunt down the man who has my daughter. You can argue with me, or you can tell me which of these clunkers is most prepared to log a few miles. Oh, and fuel would help. Stopping at a gas station isn’t gonna work for me right now.”

“I got a granddaughter,” he said roughly.

“Yes. She’s six years old, her name is Sophie and she’s counting on me to rescue her. So help me, Dad. Help me save her.”

“She as tough as her mom?”

“God, I hope so.”

“Who took her?”

“First thing I have to figure out.”

“How you gonna do that?”

I smiled, grimly this time. “Let’s just say, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts invested a lot of resources into my training, and they’re about to get their money’s worth. Vehicle, Dad. I don’t have much time, and neither does Sophie.”

He didn’t move, just crossed his arms and peered down at me. “You lying to me?”

I didn’t feel like arguing anymore. Instead, I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around his waist, and leaned my head against the bulk of his chest. He smelled of cigarettes, motor oil, and whiskey. He smelled of my childhood, and the home and mother I still missed.

“Love you, Dad. Always have. Always will.”

His frame shook. A slight tremor. I chose to believe that was his way of saying he loved me, too. Mostly because the alternative hurt too much.

I stepped back. He unfolded his arms, crossed to the Peg-Board, and handed me a single key.

“Blue Ford truck, out back. Gotta lotta miles, but its heart’s good. Four-wheel drive. You’re gonna need that.”

For navigating the snowy road. Perfect.