“And here you are, burning it to the ground for every other Price. For God’s sake, you’re sick!” My voice hikes into the night. “My baby.” I weep into my hands a moment. “You hurt my baby.”
“Reagan is my baby.” He sniffs hard as if annunciating the fact. “Maybe had you visited more often your mother and I would’ve had something real to live for.”
“My mother.” I marvel at the fact he could mention her with a straight face. I swallow down the pain of losing her. “How could you hurt the mother of your children? How could you wake up and look in the mirror knowing what you had done?”
“You’re one to talk.” A harrowing moan expels from him and somewhere in the night a coyote howls in return. He doubles over and clutches at his stomach, retches as if he may vomit. “You sent that woman away in the cold tonight. You looked at her as if she were a common street whore!” His voice inches up an octave, and it takes a moment for me to realize he’s talking about Hailey. “Believe me when I say this—you will be sitting in this exact spot in thirty years with broken ribs and a collapsed lung because your son just beat the living shit out of you.” He dips his chin and begins to retch.
Hailey and that baby. I shake my head at the thought of my father being right. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. If that child is mine, I don’t plan on disrespecting Hailey no matter how tempting it might be. I’ll be civil about it. It will be hell, but one of my own making.
“But that’s one thing I can’t fault you for.” He starts in on an uncontrollable shiver. “We succumbed to the lust of the flesh.”
The moment stills. A cricket makes its presence known as I try to wrap my brain around what my father might be implying.
“Who was she?” There. Why not just cut to the chase? He’s half-dead anyway.
“Don’t you know?” He hikes a shoulder at me, struggling to sit on his side. “I gave you a damn hint the other night. I thought for sure anyone with half a brain would have pieced it together.”
What the hell is he talking about? I rack my brain, searching for the so-called hint. “I give. Uncle. Who was she?”
“That little bitch you started to bring around. Soon as you left for school, she was all over me—wanting to pet your pillow like some damn pervert. Before I knew it, she was on me, all over me like lice—and it happened.” Sucker punch. Can’t breathe. “Had a kid. Baby Angel. Nothing I could give her was enough to keep them out of my hair. Always wanting more, always sniffing around for another dollar. She kept whining about that kid costing so damn much so I took care of it for her.”
My blood runs cold. Monica didn’t have my baby. She had my father’s. My head spins with the idea. “You killed her. You killed your child.” Hell, he had already killed two others—Aston, too. I officially absolve myself of my brother’s demise. Every move in our lives was orchestrated by this monster by my side.
“Damn house wasn’t enough. It’s still in my name. You’ll get it one day.” He tips his head toward me.
“The Ghost Ship?” I wrack my brain, I’d swear Monica said an ex-husband gave it to her but then she’s been deceiving me for years. “I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with you.” Either of them. “Is that why she had all of our memories stowed in her attic?”
“When your mother died, I didn’t want them. I let her take them. She loved to sit and look at you. I’ve never seen a woman worship anyone so thoroughly.” He gives a quivering sigh. “In the beginning, she took Reagan for a couple of nights, but the risk was too high. She gave her back.”
My eyes widen in the dark, wide as saucers. No wonder she didn’t want me lurking around that big house. She was too afraid there was evidence left behind, like a ball, like dark hair on the pillow. Monica Phillips is going to pay right alongside my father for what she’s done—for the hell she’s put me through.
“What about Ota? Who the hell is she and how do we get her home?” My heart thumps unnaturally because so much about Ota doesn’t make sense.
“Ota?” He looks mildly confused. “I recognized her from the missing posters. Reagan’s friend. Darn if I know what happened to that little girl. But I’m glad she’s back.”
“You didn’t take her?”
“No. Heaven’s no. When I found Reagan, she was walking alone, talking to herself. It surprised me as much as it did you to see the other little girl turn up missing.”
My stomach sours. Something is still out of place. Reagan was with Ota the night she disappeared. My father is a loon and nothing he says can be trusted. His insanity runs deep and wide as the web of roots holding this mountain community together. His mind is the twisted forest, the black lake of nothingness.
“But your mother”—he shakes his head wistfully—“I couldn’t allow her to go missing. No siree Bob.”
“My mother was leaving you because she didn’t like the pig you had become.” A sorrowful huff of laughter dies in my chest. “Little did she know what an asshole you had been all along.”
“She knew.”
Something about the way he says it saws along my nerves.
“She knew everything.” He looks over, a sly smile curling on his lips. A line of blood filling in the crack. “Want to know what she said the night Aston died?” A darkness enters him as he starts to chuckle, blood trickling from his nose and ear, his teeth yellowed with the sanguine liquid. “She said she knew you couldn’t get it right.”
“That’s it.” My foot itches to kick the living shit out of him, but instead I head into the house and lock the door behind me.
The forecast calls for snow before morning. He can’t crawl three inches to save himself. For a moment, I consider going back out—round two. But I’m not up for it. In truth, at this point none of it really matters. We have Reagan back. I’ll gladly turn Ota over to the authorities come morning. Life will stabilize. It will have to.
I place my hand over the door. Rest in peace, Dad. It will be your very last cold night, and you will wish for snow where you are going.
My toes screw into the floor, preventing me from my very next step. I unlock the door before heading upstairs.
I never did want to be like my father.
15
Allison
Reagan slept solid in the bed between James and me, a lamb between two shepherds. Ota settled somewhere near the bottom of our feet like flotsam. It was the first night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks, months, the best of my life, a heavenly rest that one can only attain in eternity.
James and I wake early and head downstairs to make the girls pancakes, a tower of cakes dripping with butter and syrup. Today will be the first day of the rest of our new lives. This was the after to a horrible before—the fissure that divides the two will always be Reagan’s disappearance.
Rich will be here in a few hours, as will McCafferty. We will have some explaining to do, but we’ve already settled on the fact we’ll maintain they walk straight to the door in the early hours of the morning. No one will fault us for wanting some time with our daughter. Our nightmare is over, and all of the disbelieving trolls can finally go to hell. Social services will most likely pick up Ota and cart her off to God knows where. And I’m not sure I care to know. She’s been the mystery, the constant element of surprise, and I long for a nice boring life without another single surprise for as long as I live.
James wraps his arms around me from behind and I let him. It feels right, honest, and most of all, like he belongs there.
“Who do you think the girl is?” he whispers warm into my ear and my body tingles. “You still think she’s Heather’s?”
“I don’t know.” My head hurts just thinking about it. “I honestly don’t know if Heather was well enough to pull that off. Maybe she’s from the shelter? He could have paid off some crackhead to borrow her kid. Nothing would shock me anymore. Where is your dad, anyway? He usually doesn’t sleep in this long.” I glance past his shoulder, but his body tenses behind me so I drop it. In truth, I don’t feel like going there either.
My phone buzzes. “It’s McCafferty.”
Hear the news?