“I’ll put ’em where I goddamn want ’em!” He wrenched me away from the wall and tossed me toward the piano bench.
I half fell, half sat on the thing, bones jarring from the rough impact.
My father stood over me, staring down, a vein in his forehead standing out. “Cut. The. Bullshit. Did you ask my officer to look at that file?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. Dad had a Grade-A bullshit meter, so it was better to stick as close to the truth as I could.
“Why?” he fired at me.
Time to bring out the social worker’s psychobabble. “Because we’re all stuck. The only person who’s moving on with his life is Jude, Daddy. In this house we just wallow.”
The vein in his forehead throbbed. “You seeing him?”
“No,” I said vehemently. “But he’s out, and I can’t believe it’s been three years and we’re still a wreck in this house. I just wanted to know what happened that night.” There was just enough truth in there to make me sound convincing.
His teeth ground together. “What happened was you ran around with that junkie like the little whore you are. And your brother wound up dead.”
As soon as he called me a whore, an eerie calm settled over me. “That is not how you speak to your daughter,” I said, my voice cool. I knew he wouldn’t listen, but I needed to say it. The words came out sounding tougher than I really felt.
Or maybe that was exactly how I felt. There was no way for me to fake it anymore. The time had come to an end when I could pretend that things in this house weren’t irrevocably broken.
My father continued to stare down at me. Then he did something I hadn’t anticipated. He reached down and plucked his Glock 22 from his ankle holster and fingered the safety. “What does Nelligan know?”
The gun was pointed at the floor, but the threat was unmistakable. My gut loosened in my belly, and time slowed way down. “He knows I’m curious,” I said slowly. “I asked him to access the file and print a copy for me to read. He asked me why and I said I didn’t want you to feel badly seeing it. But I’ve never read it, and I was curious.”
My father chewed his lip, thinking. The gun stayed pointing at the carpet, but I kept sneaking looks at it. My father had done many obnoxious things in our years together, but never once had he held a gun while arguing with me. Logically, I knew it was just one of his tricks. The man was a master at interrogation. That’s what he’d done during his years in the military—interrogation and intelligence.
Judging from the fact that my knees were currently knocking together in fear, I guessed he’d been pretty good at his job.
“What did Nelligan tell you tonight?”
“Um…” Shit! “He called to say that he couldn’t print out the file because the network went down.”
My father’s lip curled. “What else? Don’t you fucking lie.”
He stroked the revolver with his thumb and I indulged in a fantasy of cold-cocking him with the damn thing. “He said some kind of log wasn’t properly done, but it didn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Do you have any idea?” My father’s voice was gruff.
“What?” I whispered, unsure what he was asking.
“What it’s like to investigate your own child’s death?” He was actually sweating now.
“No,” I said slowly. “It must be awful.”
“Were you in my den today?”
“Uh…” The change of topic threw me. “No.” Fear was making me stuttery and stupid.
“So what’s in the bag, Sophie?”
“What?” My head spun from the rapid change of subject. “What bag?”
He pointed with his free hand, and that’s when I discovered that the bag was still on my shoulder.
“Oh.” Oh, shit. Oh. My. God. The police report was in there, and my whole story was about to fall apart. “Books, as usual,” I lied.
His eyes narrowed. “Exams are done.”
“Yes, and thank you for congratulating me.” The taunt was unwise, but the words just slipped out. As Gavin’s graduation had approached, my parents were practically preparing a ticker-tape parade. For me? Silence.
With one strong yank, my father ripped the bag off my arm, grabbing it.
“Hey!” I tried to grab it back.
My father held it out of my grasp. He flipped the safety on the gun and switched hands before unzipping the bag and plunging his hand inside.
He must not have been expecting me to fight back, because when I dove for the bag I was able to get a grip on it.
But it wasn’t enough.
My father shoved me out of the way. Hard. I went down again, this time hitting my head on the corner of the piano. While I sat there, stunned, my father ripped the bag open and overturned it on the floor. The folder hit the floor with a slap, the words COLEBURY POLICE DEPT. stamped onto its exterior.
“Lying little shit!” The vein throbbed in his forehead as he moved closer to me.
Still moving too slowly, I cowered, pulling my arms over my head.
There was a loud knock on the front door.
“Who the fuck is that?” my father hissed.
Having no idea, I said nothing.