He wanted to rationalize this, wanted to slap some sort of reasonable explanation onto this discovery, but the truth wouldn’t relent. It pushed against each barrier Preacher tried to erect, battering wildly, shouting loudly, refusing to be ignored.
The key ring felt suddenly too heavy in his hand, this key ring full of… fucking trophies. Heavy and pulsating, pulsing like a beating heart. The beat echoed in his ears, in his veins.
Those rings weren’t just rings. They were people. Dozens of people.
The smear of blood on the trailer door flashed in his mind over and over and over again, until he felt drunk and dizzy.
Preacher choked on his thoughts. Choked on the memory of a sweet, young face. Full lips split into a wide smile. A pair of big, beautiful brown eyes.
He’d thought she’d left him. All these years he’d thought she’d run from him.
Rage—pure, unadulterated rage flowed through him. Every muscle in his body tensed until his skin felt ten times too tight, and his breath was coming in short, angry bursts.
Preacher didn’t recall crossing the room. One second he was flush against the wall and the next he was bent over the hospital bed, tearing the oxygen mask away, and gripping the swollen face of a man he’d considered his brother.
His fingers squeezed Frank’s nose while his palm covered his mouth. Frank’s body hiccupped even as Preacher felt slithers of air escape the confines of his hand. He clamped down harder. His rage swirled higher. His tears fell faster.
Another machine began to beep, faster and louder. Then an alarm went off, ringing loudly through the room.
Preacher blinked and snapped to attention. He slapped the mask back over Frank’s face and was quickly backing away from the bed when two nurses burst inside the room.
? ? ?
Mouth agape, barely breathing, I could do no more than stare at my father.
Much like Preacher had, I was having an equally hard time processing the truth. I didn’t even know where to begin. My grandparents, my mother, fucking Frank…
“I just lost my fuckin’ mind,” Preacher croaked. “She’d already been gone so long, and I’d already guessed somethin’ wasn’t right. And then I saw those rings, and I knew what he’d done, and I just… lost my fuckin’ mind.”
He turned to me, his red-rimmed eyes wet with tears. “It was all my fault, Eva. I didn’t see it… I didn’t see it… I didn’t know… and it was too late. Lookin’ back now, I can see it all. Things were wrong. Frank was… wrong. I see it clearly now. Don’t know why I could never see it back then.”
Preacher squeezed his eyes closed, and tears ran freely down his wrinkled cheeks. “And Jesus, Eva,” he whispered, “You gotta know that I only took Frankie in because I felt so goddamn guilty. I was only thinkin’ about what Frank musta put him through… especially after Maria had passed.”
Recalling Frankie’s nightmares and his inability to sleep without me, I clasped my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. He’d been beyond help—beyond anything I could have done for him, at least. Still, my heart broke for him all over again—for the broken little boy I’d loved as a brother.
There was a touch to my back, and I glanced up to find Deuce staring down at me, his features pinched, his eyes darker than normal, violence shimmering in their depths. Fighting for calm, I attempted to school my features. But it was too late, and Deuce knew me too well.
When it came to my relationship with Frankie, there was only so far Deuce could be pushed before he started pushing back. He couldn’t understand it—why I loved Frankie despite all he’d put me through. And that was okay, because most of the time neither could I. Love was irrational like that—irrational, uncontainable and unexplainable.
“I’m gonna go get some air,” he growled softly.
Feeling guilty, I watched him walk stiffly away.
With a sigh, I turned back to my father.
He was fumbling with the collar of his hospital gown, his unsteady fingers tugging his gold neck chain free. With some effort, he slipped it over his head and offered it to me.
I could only stare at the tiny ring dangling from the chain. No longer silver, it was heavily tarnished, but there was no mistaking the butterfly setting.
“I knew she was gone,” he said, “I knew I wasn’t ever gonna see her again, but I never stopped thinkin’ that maybe she’d show back up one day. All my life, that feelin’ never left me. I kept thinkin’ maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe she was still out there somewhere.”
Trembling, he began shaking his head. “Maybe if I coulda known exactly what happened, I coulda moved on. Maybe if I coulda buried her…”
“Oh Daddy.” Fumbling with the bedrail, I found the mechanism that allowed me to lower it. Scooting my chair forward, I grabbed Preacher’s hand and brought it to my cheek. The necklace and ring dangled between us.
“You forgive me, baby girl?” Eyes full of pain and bright with tears implored me, and my heart shattered for the hundredth time that day. Vehemently I shook my head. “There’s nothing to forgive, Daddy. Frank—he did it. He did all of it.”
Preacher looked at me with such tenderness, with such love, and with more sorrow than I’d ever imagined him capable of.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t deserve her, either. I should never have touched her. I did this, Eva. I brought her into my world, and it killed her.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled again. “I killed her.”
“No Daddy.” I attempted to sound firm, despite my grief. “Frank killed her. Frank did this.”
Preacher either didn’t hear me, or he was unwilling to believe what I was telling him. He only continued to whisper, “I didn’t deserve her.”
Wrapping an arm over his chest, I buried my face against his side and just held him as tightly as I could.
Chapter 34
At the clubhouse, shut inside Preacher’s office, I absentmindedly traced the dark ink stain on his desk. Much like everything else inside this room, the stain had been there all my life.
It was late yet the clubhouse was full, friends and family were filling nearly every room. I knew I should be out there visiting, but there were other things weighing heavily on my mind.
Leaning back in Preacher’s chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It smelled like my father in here—leather, his favorite brand of cigarettes, and hints of the cologne he sometimes wore. And I wondered how long it would be before it no longer did.
The door opened, hinges squeaking. Opening my eyes, I sat up and squinted through the dimly-lit room. A head full of dyed black hair, fashionably streaked with gray and white and curled to perfection, peeked inside. A wrinkled hand tipped with long red nails waved hello.
“Hi, baby girl.” Sylvia’s rough-hewn, nasally voice filled the room. “Can I come in?”