My eyebrows shoot up. “They came to the house?” That seems risky as hell.
“No. He usually met them in public places. I think the house thing was rare and that’s why he was so angry with that woman. I have no idea how many cases he ‘fixed,’ but there were so many emails, Easton. Like, a lot of them.” She bites her lip, looking miserable.
“Did you confront him?”
“No. I went to Parker instead. She told me to stop making up stories and to keep my mouth shut and not say a word about it to anyone.”
“Parker knew what your dad was doing?”
“I don’t know.”
I think she does know but doesn’t want to believe it. I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. She bends down and picks up a few rocks and throws them in the ocean. I join her and say nothing for a minute. But then I have to ask the one question that’s been bugging me since we first met. “How’d you break your wrist?”
The question startles her. She drops the little rock and it hits the water with a splat.
“Hartley,” I press. “How’d you break your wrist?”
“How did you know I broke it?”
“You have a surgical scar on the inside of your wrist.”
“Oh, that.” She rubs a hand over the scar. After a moment of hesitation, she exhales an unsteady breath. “A few months after I talked to my sister, Dad announced he was running for mayor. We got lots of lectures on how to behave in public. Some woman even came to the house and actually showed us how to stand, smile, and wave.”
“Yeah, we had one of those, too,” I admit. “PR’s important down here in the South.”
She gives a scornful laugh. “I can’t believe how anxious I was to be the perfect daughter. I actually videotaped myself in the mirror. Anyway, right before my freshman year, I broke a string on my violin and ordered a new one online. I’d been tracking it and saw that it was going to be delivered, so I ran down to the end of the street to ask the postman if he had it. That’s when I saw Dad sitting with a woman in a car.”
Hartley stops abruptly. I can tell it’s hard for her to talk about this stuff. I don’t blame her. Learning what kind of man Steve is still haunts me. I looked up to him. He flew planes, drank like a fish, had the best cars, the hottest chicks. He was living the best life, and I wanted to be him. But my role model is one of the worst human beings in the world, and now what am I left with?
“I watched them for a long time.” Hartley finally picks up where she left off. “They talked. She handed him a phone and some papers, and then he got out of the car, carrying his briefcase and a backpack. The backpack was weird, you know? He never carried anything like that. I was so busy staring at him that I didn’t realize the car I was hiding behind was leaving. I started running back to the house. He caught me right outside the front door, grabbed my wrist and pulled hard on it. He was so angry. That’s why he didn’t realize how much force he’d used.”
Is she really trying to explain away her father’s violence? That makes me angry. I form a fist and then tuck it against my side so she doesn’t see it. It hurts not to yell or hit something, but now I get why she hates violence. Why she freaked out the night I dragged her to the dock fights.
“He asked me what I saw. I denied it at first, but my wrist hurt so bad that I started yelling about how I’d seen everything and that it was wrong and that he shouldn’t be doing what he was doing and I was going to tell Mom everything.” Her bottom lip trembles. “He slapped me across the face and sent me to my room.”
“What about your wrist?”
Her mouth quivers again, and then her face collapses. “That’s why it didn’t heal right. I didn’t see a doctor right away.”
“What’s right away?”
“Three weeks.”
“What?” I explode.
She gulps. “The next morning, Dad came to my room and told me I was going away. I guess I didn’t really understand what was going on. I was fourteen. Maybe I should’ve stood up to him.”
”You were only fourteen,” I repeat. “And you were scared. Hell, my mom took my pills and said she was going to flush them down the toilet. I handed them over knowing she had a drug problem. We want to make our parents happy, even if we think we hate them.”
“I guess. But…yeah, I was on a plane and in upstate New York before I could really think. When I got to my dorm room, I called home and begged Mom to let me come back, but she said that Dad was the head of our household and you can’t disobey the head of the household.” Sarcasm rings in her voice. “She said that once I learned to be a good daughter, I could return. I didn’t know what that meant, but I said okay. I guess that’s why I didn’t say anything about my wrist right away. It got worse, though, and one of my teachers noticed and took me to the ER. I had to have surgery to fix it.”
“What’d you tell them?”
She looks away. “That I fell.”
I turn her chin toward me. “Don’t be ashamed.”
“It’s hard not to be.”
“Don’t be.”
“I was so good that first year. Mom reminded me that Dad was running for mayor and that if I behaved, I’d be able to come home.”
“But he didn’t win.”
“No. Parker said that shipping me off to boarding school made it seem like Dad couldn’t take care of his own household, let alone run Bayview.” Tears cling to Hartley’s eyelashes. “And they wouldn’t let me come home. Dad wouldn’t talk to me. Mom said I hadn’t shown that I was a good daughter, and that because I was bad, I had to be kept away from my sister. That I was a bad influence.”
“I don’t get it. How are you the bad influence?” Hartley cares a shit ton about her family. More than her sister, from what I can see.
“My baby sister is…complicated. She’s the sweetest girl, but sometimes…” Hartley trails off.
I fill in the blanks. “Sometimes she wants to scream at the world for no reason? She’s happy one day and frustrated the next? She can get violent and aggressive without warning?”
Surprise flares in Hartley’s eyes. “How did—” She stops, understanding dawning. “You, too?”
“Mom was like that. I get it from her. I’m guessing your sister doesn’t like her meds, either.”
Hartley nods back. “She’s bipolar, or at least that was the diagnosis a child psychologist gave. I heard my parents arguing about it because Dad refuses to believe that mental illness is a thing. He thinks she just needs more discipline."
Where have I heard that before? “Poor kid.”
“Is that your diagnosis?” she asks hesitantly.