by Robin Lovett
Except Blake is unimpressed with Logan. “She’s known you a week, and she already told you about the most painful thing in her life? I don’t think so.”
Layla’s eyes lighten. “Penny, did you tell him or . . .” She glances at Amisha, and her face lights with suspicious interest. “If you didn’t tell him, how did he learn it?”
I lean into Logan, trying to look affectionate, though he stiffens against me. I need to salvage some of the good ground we made before Blake arrived. “The point is, he knows about me.” I shove under his arm to hint he should put it around me. He drapes his arm over my shoulder like a robot.
It’s odd that affection is so strange to him. He touches and kisses me in private like it’s as natural as breathing, but in public, he’s awkward, like he’s never done it before.
Blake doesn’t like it, even with Logan’s awkwardness. “Get your hands off her.”
Logan’s hand tightens on my shoulder like he has no intention of ever letting go.
* * *
Blake’s murderous expression doesn’t scare me, it infuriates me. I’m the only one who’s allowed to be angry around Penny. I’m the only one who’s allowed to be on the verge of a murderous rage. Because me—I trust to keep my shit together. I’ve spent my life repressing my temper. I know how to control it.
Blake, I’m certain, does not.
I suspected it from the first time he came into Penny’s condo. I can see it in him now. He would hit me and loose all his anger on me without a care for the safety of anyone here.
He can hit me all he wants. His mug resembles his father’s, and I’d love an excuse to pound it. But not in front of Penny.
I urge her toward the door. “Penny, go to the car.”
“Logan, I’m not . . .”
I scowl at her, the most serious expression I can give. “Go. To. The. Car.”
“She’s going nowhere!” Blake grabs her by the arm and tugs her to him.
I see red. I can’t help it. The peripherals of my vision turn a vibrant blood color, blocking out everything except his hand squeezing Penny’s arm painfully tight.
“Blake, let go.” She struggles against his grip.
He doesn’t. “Not unless you promise to stay away from him. He’s a worthless son-of-a-bitch.”
I control my voice to stay low. “You can say any shit you want about me. But she asked you to let her go.”
“Not until she sees sense and agrees to get rid of you.”
“This is ridiculous.” Penny pushes at his hand and winces when he squeezes tighter. “You’re hurting me.”
“Blake.” Layla shouts at him. “Let Penny go. She gets to decide her own life.”
“He’s using her. She’s only money to him.”
“Blake!” Penny cries.
He clutches both her shoulders. “He’s a fake, a con. Tell him to leave. Please, Penny.”
He’s right. I don’t know what I’d do if my sister had been in the clutches of a man like me. I wonder if Penny will rat me out, tell him the truth, give him the excuse he’s looking for to ruin everything I’ve planned.
But then I’d get to see the other kind of revenge—their father’s reputation ruined by every media outlet that will print my story.
It wouldn’t be enough. Penny started out as a major point in my plan, but she’s grown into more. She’s now the only piece of my plan that matters. More than the money, more than her father’s ruin, I need her to believe me.
Penny stills. “Last chance, Blake. Let me go.”
He shakes her again. “Not until you tell him to leave.”
I’m ready to rush in and force Blake off of her. But before I can, she stomps on Blake’s foot.
“What the fuck!” Blake lets her go.
Layla claps her hands. “Well done.”
“Are you okay?” Amisha goes to Penny, who backs as far away from her brother as she can.
Now it’s my turn.
I shove Blake toward the door.
He regains his feet. Still wincing, he thrusts up his chin.
“My wife got to hurt you,” I say, taking way too much satisfaction in calling her that. “Now it’s my turn.”
People scuttle away, giving us a wide berth. A man dressed in black who must be a bouncer says, “Outside, gentlemen.”
“Gladly,” Blake says, and I follow him into the gravel parking lot.
Away from the building and people, he turns to me. “I’ll pay you off. Not the whole trust, but enough for you to leave her alone.”
“And why would I take that? She’s far too much fun to give up for less than all of it.”
His shoulders rise, and his neck muscles bulge in fury. “Because eventually she’s going to see through you, and when she does she’ll turn you in to the police and have you arrested.”
I cross my arms. “For what? I haven’t hurt her. I haven’t stolen anything from her and I’m not going to.”
“You’re guilty of something, and I’m going to find out what.” Barely contained anger roils his expression.
I’m still itching for an excuse to hit him, so I provoke him. “The only thing I’ve done is fuck with your sister.” It works.
He makes a fist and throws a punch. I block with my forearm and punch him in the gut. He rams me with his shoulder, and I’m shoved against a car.
A fist nails my jaw. My head cracks against steel, but I grab him and throw him against the side of the car.
“STOP IT!” Penny’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. “Get in the car!” she shouts at me, pointing at the flashing taillights of her Lexus hybrid.
Blake holds his head and glares at me.
“Now!” Penny shouts at me.
“Stay away from her,” I say to Blake, then follow her to her car. I’ll have another opportunity to fight him.
I slide into the passenger seat of Penny’s car.
She gets in. “Don’t hit my brother, ever!”
“Not even when he’s nasty to you?”
“Not even.” She starts the car and drives out onto the road.
I catch my breath and rub my jaw where it’s swelling. “You got to hit him.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Yeah, well, he hurt my wife!” My voice rings in the car.
“Careful. Or I’ll think you actually care about me.”
I cringe. “It makes me look bad if some guy hurts something that’s mine.”
“I’m yours now?”
“By law.”
“No. That would be in the Middle Ages. I am not yours. I’m not anybody’s.” Her voice lowers. “Not anymore.”
I jerk in surprise. “Were you somebody’s before?” Her belonging to someone else, some other guy is . . .
I shouldn’t care. But the response in me is the same as the one I had to her brother. I want to rip his eyes out.
She sighs. “My father wasn’t big on, well, independence.”
“Oh. Him.” It doesn’t slow my heartbeat, though.
“Perhaps that’s why his death hit me so hard. The control he exerted over my life—even from far away . . .”
I want to know everything about this dead man who destroyed my sister’s life. “What did he do?”
“It wasn’t bad. Not really.”
“But it upset you.”
“It was small things. Things that added up to . . . me . . . not . . .” Her words come slow and hollow, like from the end of a tunnel.
“What did he do?”
“More like . . . what he didn’t do.” Her words come faster. “If I got bad grades, he wouldn’t talk to me until I’d fixed them. When I was little, if I did something he didn’t like, he would walk by me and pretend I wasn’t there. For days at a time. And when I decided not to go to med school . . .” Her voice shakes and breaks off.
“What?”
“He didn’t speak to me for six months. Wouldn’t answer the phone when I called. Was ‘out of town’ when I was home on break.”
“Good. You didn’t need to be spending time with that asshole.”
“He wasn’t an asshole. He was my father!”
“Exactly.”
She doesn’t speak, but the rise and fall of her chest quickens and her shoulders bunch. A shiver goes through her, but she shakes it off—as though trying to get rid of thoughts. Whatever she’s thinking, she’s closer to being ready for the truth.
I’m more than ready to give it to her.
* * *
My father loved me, too much in many ways, and I was his prize. His prize to put on display for his friends and business colleagues. His little girl to do as he said, whenever he said.
It wasn’t so bad. Sometimes it annoyed me. But I received so little attention from him, that what little I did get, I savored and pined for. But this is the first I’ve thought of it since he died.
I squash my thoughts. My father is gone. I refuse to think bad things of him. He was a good man who wanted what was best for me. He wasn’t perfect, but I would give anything to have him back.
The twist in my gut at that thought sends a shot of fear through me.
Of course, I want my father back. I miss him. I loved him. I—
Logan yanks me away from my thoughts. “Pull over. I’ll drive.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
A sob lodges in my throat, but the urge to close my eyes and lose it makes me pull over.
My door opens.
“Get out and let me drive,” Logan says.
His voice, the sound, it infuriates me. It’s all his fault. I wouldn’t be having these problems if he hadn’t barged into my life and made me start thinking these bad things about my father.
“I hate you!”
I leap from the car and shove him.
He stumbles backward into the road. I see the headlights too late, the car heading straight for him.
I scream. “Logan!”
The horn blares, the car swerves, and Logan jumps off the road in time.
My heart pounds with fright, but the car passed him. Missed him. He’s okay.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he shouts, his face falling into his mask of fury.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m so—”
“Get in the car.” He walks around me and gets in the driver side.
I stumble around to the passenger side. He drives us home in silence, me wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to face the truth—no matter how bad it is.
Chapter Seventeen
I’ve had enough. She’s at the end of my tolerance for denial.
She’s pushed me away for long enough.
There’s no sound from her the rest of the way home. She’s wallowing, and her denial is hurting her as much as it’s hurting me. The self-pity she’s festering in is deeper than the ocean outside her window.
I park her car in the driveway and she doesn’t move.
“Get inside,” I say.
“I’m s-sorry.” She sputters.
“I don’t care. Get out of the car.”
She inhales like she’s ready to yell at me again. I jump out of the car before she can speak.
She’s going to drive me insane. Almost as insane as the dread lacing my veins. It’s here. It’s time.
I don’t want it to be.
I yank open her car door.
“I’m going. I’m going.” She treads slowly into the house.
I want to force her to go faster, but I brace my hands against the rear of my truck and make myself breathe.
I’ve been sheltering her from the truth. Like everyone else has, her whole life. She deserves to have the lies abolished. My hands start to shake. I haven’t been saving her from it—I’ve been saving myself. Opening those files again is the last thing I ever want to do.
The brutal evidence of what happened to Louisa—it shreds me every time I look at it. I’ve read the files exactly three times. All three times are landmarks of before-and-after. I’m never the same.
Penny reaches the front door and slips inside the condo. The door closes and I move as slowly as she does to the cab of my truck. I pull the seat forward and pull out the manila envelope in the compartment behind it—three inches thick, with files and hard CD cases inside.
In many ways, it’s the most valuable proof I have left of her life. My fading memories are less clear than what’s written on these pages and recorded on these CDs.
Her voice comes back, the described images return, the things a person can never forget once read. Like always happens when I see this envelope, half of me longs to set fire to it and destroy it. The other half of me can’t wait to open it, to read it again and see the real reason why I don’t have her anymore.
My feet tread heavy on the steps up to the door. My heart is pumping faster than it should.
What will Penny say?
In my hands are the vital secrets of the past that, once shared, can never be taken back.
If she doesn’t believe this, I’ll have to leave. There’s no way I can look her in the face again if she doesn’t. The rest of my plans for her, for how I want to torture her, use her, and tease her, they won’t matter if she fails at this.
Inside, she’s sitting at the table. On seeing the envelope in my hand, or maybe it’s the look on my face, her expression ices over.
“What’s that?” she asks.
I drop it on the table, and it lands with a thud. “The truth.”
She ducks her chin, shame folding her shoulders. A fiery blush sweeps her neck and face. “I can’t.”
“You have to.” I open the envelope and pull out the file on the first incident, the first time Louisa went to the police after he attacked her. I put the papers in front of her. “Read it.”
She clenches her eyes closed as tight as her fists. “I don’t want to see it.”
I don’t want her to have to read it any more than she does, but she’s spent so much time in denial she has no choice left. “Open your eyes.”
With a sharp inhale she looks at me, her eyes pleading, as much for the truth as for me to spare her.
I tap the paper. “You owe it to yourself to learn what happened.”
She hesitates again. “I don’t want to know.”
“You’ll never know who your father really was until you know his secrets. And waiting won’t make it easier.”
She gulps, and holding her breath, turns the page.
* * *
I scan the pages, and it’s nothing like I expected. But just like I feared.
At first the reports are clinical, factual evidence.
Then I get to the details of her testimony, and the things that are written . . . it starts out with nonviolent but harassing language, and I have to close my eyes.
It sounds like my father. Not that I ever heard him say such crude things or use such explicit language, but the phrasing, the proprietary sexist context of it—it sounds like him. The same voice he used when he’d say to me, “You’re a pretty thing,” when I dressed as he said for a party.
I convince myself, it’s no big deal. What I’m reading isn’t that horrible. My father was a chauvinist. I’ve always known this. Sure, no man should ever say these things to a woman, but it doesn’t make him a criminal.
Those thoughts are more denial. My stomach contorts, and I feel sick. I’m lying to myself. But this man who I loved and who loved me couldn’t be so horrible. He was my father.
The descriptions change, morphing from verbal to physical, and my heart slows into a state of shock. Like watching a horror scene in a violent movie. I don’t want to read, I can hardly wrap my head around what’s there, but I can’t stop, either.
Somewhere amid the lines, the details that are too meticulous to be fabricated, something changes in me. The bad things about my father that I repressed and tried to forget resurface. His neglect, his control, his dismissive treatment of me, were not strange phenomena excusable by his high-powered job. They were more
accurate signs of the violent man he really was than any of the good things I’ve clung to for years.
And more than any words I’m reading, my desire to know, to keep going, to read every word, pokes holes in my denial. Though it hurts like a wound ripping through my chest, there’s light on the other side.
Through the darkness of the words, there’s a lightness to learning the truth, horrific as it may be.
There’s no DNA evidence with the first packet. The report says she went to the university clinic for help, and they did nothing. They “lost” the evidence. Only then did she go to the police.
I reach for the second packet, one with DNA evidence attached. I could stop, but the pages are addictive. I don’t want to see what the words are making me see, yet I have to know everything.
Gone is my need to reject it. In its place, I’m greedy to hear it all.
I devour the third packet.
Then there’s no more. I don’t want to think about what this means—how this changes everything. Everything I’ve believed of this man I called my father all my life.
The envelope dumps upside down, and three CDs tumble out.
Bile rises in my throat. To hear the voice of the woman who experienced the things I read—I’m terrified.
“You don’t have to listen to them.” Logan stands beside me. I’d forgotten he was there. He’s been silent, watching me.
The CDs are labeled with the dates. Each a few months apart.
I breathe deep. “I have to.”
“I don’t have a player.” The look on his face is strange. His fury replaced with something resembling fear.
That can’t be right.
I squint. “You don’t want me to listen to it?”
“You’ve read it. You don’t need to hear it.” He tries to take the envelope from me.
“No. I have to.” Holding it tightly, I go to my storage closet.
I don’t know why he doesn’t want me to listen, but I have to hear it. It’s the final puzzle piece. The last of my denial still hangs by a thread. I want it gone.
I dig between boxes. My fingers are coated with dust, but in the back of the closet, I find a boombox with a CD player.