He shot her a quick glance. “Do not sit on the counter.”
As if she’d lose her mind and commit such a heinous household offense. “I’m resting.”
He frowned at her before going back to scooping. “You’re perfectly capable of standing up straight.”
“Right.” She sighed as she turned around and opened the cabinet door. Setting the table seemed innocent enough, so she got the dishes down and started that. “How’s everything at school?”
“The university is as challenging as always.”
She stifled a groan. Not facing him at that moment helped. Also allowed her to perform the perfect eye roll. Apparently it was going to be one of those nights. She decided if the mood stayed here at the just-above-squirming level she may as well plunge ahead and make it turn the energy toxic.
“May I ask you something?” She folded the napkins, careful to line up the edges and smooth the crease in a perfect line.
“Of course.” He started to carve the chicken. “I am always open to a robust discussion.”
He made her head hurt. “When Uncle Gavin died—”
“No.” The cabinet rattled from the force of him slamming the carving utensils against the counter. “Stop this.”
She spun around to face him. Took in the fury holding every muscle in his body tense and the jutting chin. He’d gone from his usual level of disappointment to enraged in less than a minute. “I didn’t ask anything yet.”
For a second he just stared at her. He held so still that the kitchen fell into obedient silence. “I see where this is going and we will not talk about Tiffany. This is our weekly family dinner, not an invitation to open issues long settled.”
Settled? Her hands shook from the force of the anger surging through her. She had to put down the plates to keep them from clanking together. “She’s still missing.”
“I am aware of that, Emery.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
A nerve twitched in his cheek, likely from the way she phrased the question. Possibly from the fact she dared to ask one at all.
“It’s been thirteen years. You need to deal with the reality that she is not coming back.” He went back to carving the chicken. Gone was the smooth slide of the knife. His movements were jerky now. “Your job, this incessant need to pick at old wounds, it is all so unhealthy.”
She had nothing to grab on to or hold . . . or throw. She reached behind her and wrapped her fingers around the top of the chair. “It’s about closure. She deserves to have a real ending.”
“She has one.”
The cruelty of that statement shot through Emery. “Tiffany is your niece.”
“This holds you back.” He pointed at her with the knife. When a piece of chicken skin fell off the edge and onto the floor, he glared at it before glaring at her again. “You are unable to move on and find a career that suits you so long as you are searching after useless clues.”
Adrenaline pumped through her. All the words, all the arguments, lodged in her throat in a rush to come out. She had to fight the urge to pick up the chair and throw it. “I would hope someone—anyone—would look for me if I just vanished.”
He reached down and wiped up the floor. “You wouldn’t do that.”
She knew where he was headed with this. She’d heard this speech so many times that the idea of a replay had her ready to jump out the sliding glass door by the head of the table. First, he would refer to Tiffany’s smart mouth and how he’d always thought she’d run into trouble. Then he’d move on to his theory about her running away. Truth was, part of him blamed Tiffany and what he viewed as her out-of-control personality for being taken, and Emery had never been able to forgive him for that.
“She did not run away.” She would have made contact and there had never been any attempts. She’d never been seen anywhere and Emery knew from the detective who once worked the case that her social security number was never used again.
“That is your theory, but there is not one scrap of evidence that suggests otherwise.”
“And there’s not one bit that supports your theory of her running off with someone.” Emery knew all about Tiffany’s crushes and the boy she kissed the week before she disappeared. They’d talked about everything, and nothing pointed to her running off without a word. Not one thing.
Her father sighed as he picked up the platter of partially cut chicken and brought it over to the table. “She was a troubled girl. I know you don’t want to believe that, but Gavin and I talked about her issues. He was concerned about her growing behavioral issues and wanted her to go to boarding school. Louise fought it, but it would have happened.”
“That’s not true.”
The platter hit the table with a thud. “You’ve recreated this image of her to make her some sort of a saint, but that is not reality.”