Page 64 of I Would Beg For You

Chapter 21 Naomi

I hardly sleep thatnight. Anya dropped me off at a dead-quiet house. No one was here, which proved a comfort as well as a fright. Anya wanted to stay, but how would we have explained her presence? We hardly were BFFs who could improvise a sleepover—that’d tip my father off she was looking out for me, under the directive of my uncle.

It still stuns me when I think back to earlier and how my uncle stepped into my life. The drive back home didn’t happen in a vacuum. I pumped Anya for information, and she replied as truthfully as she could. Some things she still kept to herself, though I couldn’t fault her for that. She was meant to look out for me, not to report back to me.

It turns out my uncle and grandparents were banned from seeing my mother once she married my dad. He cited her ‘fragile health’ as the reason, didn’t want to upset her, he said. As if seeing them would put her into a state, like a child seeing their parent randomly once inside their classroom in kindergarten during the first days of the school year.

She wasn’t a child, yet a part of me wonders in what state she was during her time with him. Every time I now recall the picture I saw at Valentino’s house, I want to sob. Because there’d been a soft look to her—she did indeed bring to mind a lost child…

What the fuck did he do to her?

So, her family couldn’t see her, couldn’t take care of her. They found a way to keep an eye on her, though. The cook in our New Jersey house was someone they knew and trusted. Then they made sure the housekeeper who was hired at the summer residence in the Hamptons was a woman who reported to them.

What good did it do, though? None of them could stop her accident from happening. And a sinking feeling had started growing in my gut. Was it an accident, or was it deliberate? I wouldn’t go as far as saying my father killed her—he’s not the sort to get his hands dirty. So…suicide?

I close my eyes tight and ward off the thought, the very word, every time it returns to plague me. She can’t have…

Can she?

The nightmare of that possibility circles and circles around me all night long. I barricaded myself in my bedroom, turning the lock on the door and then pulling a chest of drawers slightly in front of the panel to ward off anyone trying to break in. I can’t be sure Thad won’t be a merciless scumbag who tries something on me again. I need to talk to my dad about it, about him—maybe Anya is wrong. Maybe they’re all wrong. Anya, my uncle, Valentino. Quick glances across the yard from my bedroom window reveal no light at his window. Didn’t he come home tonight?

Sleep eludes me, and I doze off when it’s close to dawn.

I awaken, groggy and confused, to a knock on my bedroom door.

“Naomi?” my father’s voice calls out.

It sounds like the pounding of nails in my brain, so much a debilitating headache is crushing my head in a vise.

“Yes?” I voice out, mouth dry and tongue feeling thick.

“We can have a quick breakfast before I have to leave.”

I don’t want to confront him. In fact, a part of me never wants to see him ever again. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Until last month, I didn’t know my parents’ marriage wasn’t blissful. Until that day, I didn’t doubt whether my mother was okay or not. Her death was a tragedy, period. Until yesterday, I didn’t know I had family actively looking for me and looking out for me. Never mind the fact I own the apartment in New York—I love it, true, but it’s a possession. All my life, I’ve felt lonely having only my father as family after my mother died. I grew up believing he loves me, and I learned to be content with just the two of us. But now I find out that he kept me away from my uncle and is probably a liar and rapist and pedophile.

Stop! You don’t know his side of the story.

And I suppose I should get that, before I form a definite opinion.

Plus, there’s the issue of Thad I need to address. Anya’s wrong—my dad will put me first.

“Coming,” I croak, then repeat louder.

I hear his heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, and I push myself off the bed. In the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and rinse my face. I gather my hair up into a messy bun, then change my clothes in the room, donning a pair of jeans and a thick-knit cream wool sweater.

My feet trudge down the stairs, and I pause on the first floor. Sounds are coming from the kitchen, and I make my way there prudently. So far, it seems to be just the two of us in the house. I’m expecting Thad to jump out of the woodwork at me, but I make it safely to the breakfast nook and no sign of him.

I take a deep breath, the smell of bacon frying infiltrating my nostrils. For once, I don’t let the delicious aroma distract me.

“Dad? We need to talk.”

He putters around, pouring eggs into the pan. I can’t believe he’s making a frittata right now.

He doesn’t know what happened, I remind myself. I take another deep breath.

“Dad, please.” When he glances up at me, I continue. “Thad tried to rape me yesterday.”

His hand stills on the handle of the cast-iron pan. His entire body freezes, except for the small twitch of his left eye as he stares at me. Then he seems to snap out of it, pulls the pan to him, bends, opens the oven door, slides the pan in, closes the door, and whips the kitchen towel he’d placed over his shoulder.

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