While I’m very grateful that I was able to talk to someone about Daddy and his confession, I’m definitely having morning-after remorse. What if he told someone? Then again, what would that change? Daddy is scheduled to die in twenty-six days, whether he confessed to the crime or not.
Does it really matter who I told? I can’t seem to figure out the answer to that with my head still sending dull, aching waves down the base of my neck.
I pull on a pair of jeans with more force than necessary, mad at myself more than anyone else. I pick up my phone and see a text message pop up. I groan when I see the name I apparently saved his number under.
Hot Guy: How are you feeling this morning?
I quickly change the contact name to “Jordan” and bite on my nail for a minute while I try to think of a fitting response. Finally, I send back:
Like I was hit by a truck that then backed over me … and ran me over again.
I think for a few seconds before adding:
Thanks for everything. You were great last night, despite how not great I was.
Sticking the phone in my pocket, I sigh. Then I remember to silence it so it won’t interrupt Mama and me having our “talk about last night.” Clean, dressed, and now feeling like a rather unpleasant vacuum has replaced my stomach, I walk into the kitchen to find my breakfast done—and almost burning on the stove. Mama is nowhere in sight.
With a sigh, I turn off the burner and scoop the only slightly browned omelet onto a plate. I grab a fork and set out to find her. She’s in her room with one of Daddy’s boxes open beside her, a deeply sad expression on her face. Her hands are clenched at her sides and she has an old family picture from when I was a toddler on her lap.
I cross to her, taking a bite of my food, but her eyes remain on the picture. “What are you doing, Mama?”
She looks up at me, her eyes focusing and blinking a few times. “Oh, Riley … nothing, honey. I’m just trying to straighten a few things before I put them in the attic.”
The entire box beside her is full of old photos she had suddenly taken down off the walls a few months ago. When I angrily asked her what she was doing, she said she thought it was unhealthy to live surrounded by reminders of something that was over. They would prevent us from moving forward. She said we were trapping ourselves in a life that we couldn’t ever have again because even if Daddy came home, everything would still be very different. I didn’t speak to her for five entire days—not that she even noticed since she was so busy with work.
Setting my plate on the nightstand, I pick up my favorite photo: the three of us laughing in a park. Daddy has his arms around us both, and Mama is resting her head against his shoulder and looking at him with adoration in her eyes. It had been taken almost one year before Daddy was arrested.
My heart thuds painfully against the wall of my chest. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the pictures. But after my visit with Daddy yesterday, they only cause confusion. Did he smile and laugh with us, then become someone else afterward?
If his confession to me was true, then he’d already started killing by the time that photo was taken. I stare at the photo, wondering how I could ever be convinced that this smiling, laughing man had taken a life.
Crimes like that shouldn’t be easy to wash off. No one should be able to murder someone and then come home to his family and pretend like nothing happened. He should have that blood staining his hands forever. If he stole even one life, his world should never be the same again … let alone three lives.
Of course, Daddy’s life did change, whether he deserved it or not. He’s been in Polunsky for most of his adult life. He’s going to die in twenty-six days, and I still don’t know if he did the things he’ll be dying for.
“Riley?” Mama grips my shoulder and I snap out of it and turn toward her. She takes the picture I’m still holding and puts the remaining photos back in the box with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”
“For what?”
She points to my slightly burned omelet, forgotten on her nightstand. “Your breakfast.”
“Oh.” I pick it up and shovel a bite into my mouth with a forced grin. “It’s delicious.”
Mama laughs and puts the lid back on the box, moving it over against the wall. When she turns back to me, she clasps her hands before her and puts on her best Stern Mothering look. “Now, about last night…”
I sigh and plop down on her bed, waiting for the lecture that I not only know is coming, but that I absolutely deserve.
Mama tilts her head toward me. “Why would you do that to yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, studying the omelet on my plate. “Maybe we can just assume I’ve learned my lesson and will never do it again?” I give her a pleading look.
“Doubtful.” Mama grimaces. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer quickly. And from the way she levels her stare at me, I realize, too quickly.