Page 83 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Chapter Twenty-Six

Emily

The massive knot of emotions inside me churns and roils for the entire drive home, threatening to boil over and explode out of me. I’ve never been in a fight before, not even a grade-school hair-pulling slap-fight, but a fantasy of cracking open my stepmother’s head with a baseball bat plays over and over again in my head.

This is all her fault. I don’t even care anymore that my father loved her. If it weren’t for my brother, I’d have her out of the house—myhouse—in a heartbeat, andshe’dbe the one going to trial right now, not her son.

Pulling into the driveway, I park my car in the shade of the big live oak in front of the house. When I get out of the car, I look up at the old tree, and for just a moment I take refuge from the present by fleeing to the past. The fantasies of violence to Margaret give way to memories of playing under the oak, of climbing it. Of the first time I climbed it, when I was maybe six or seven, and my father had to rescue me from it even though I was only four or five feet up. Later memories of laying happily in the crook of a branch, listening to the songs of the birds and the breeze whispering through the leaves.

What happened to that happy, carefree girl? Would she even recognize the woman, angry and overstressed, that she’d grown up to be?

I just know that the second I enter the house, Margaret is going to be all over me. There’s so many benefits to spending the night with Gabriel, but not having her hovering over me is one of the better ones. Some of theotherbenefits cross my mind as I walk up to the door, though, adding butterflies to the churning mix, and I take a moment to center myself, to find some balance before I go inside.

My balance vanishes in the blink of an eye, though: my stepmother must have heard thebeepwhen I locked my car, and she’s right there waiting.

“Emily, darling,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re home, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Have you been avoiding me?”

How perceptive of her to have noticed, I think, passing her by without acknowledging her on my way to the stairs. I’ll admit to a bit ofschadenfreudeout of the way she wrings her hands; a certain twisted pleasure that her misery is entirely of her own making. I just wish that she didn’t have to invite the rest of us to the party.

On the second floor landing I take a moment to breathe again. I need to split him away from Margaret, not drive a wedge between the two of us. If I go in there, guns blazing, he’ll just end up even more tightly under her control.

I rap on the Frank’s bedroom door softly and then try the knob, but it doesn’t turn.

Huh. Not that I blame him for locking her out, but possibly I’ve underestimated him. Maybe he’s already started untangling the apron strings?

“I’m fine, Mom,” he calls out from inside his bedroom. “Please leave me alone.”

“Frank, it’s Emily. Open up, hey?”

Silence from inside the room.

“Are you alone?” he finally asks from the other side of the door.

“Yes.” I take a quick look behind me, and—sure enough—Margaret’s head is visible, bobbing up the stairs. “I’m alone, for about the next seven seconds.”

There’s no hesitation, now: the door flies open and Frank drags me into the room by one arm. By the time I even realize what happened, he’s already clicking the lock again.

“It stinks in here, Frank.” I wave a hand in front of my nose and try to hold my breath until I can get a window open for some fresh air. “How long as it been since you changed your sheets?”

“Dunno.” He flops backward onto his unmade bed.

“We need to talk,” I say, looking for a place to sit. In the end I have to push a pile of dirty clothes off his desk chair.

“Yeah. Probably.”

“Why,” I ask, biting back the urge to make it an accusation, “didn’t you tell me you were meeting with the prosecution today?”

“When would I have told you that?” Frank shrugs fatalistically and shields his eyes from the new sunlight with an arm over his face. “I haven’t seen you in, like, a week.”

“I was home last night!” I say, trying to duck away from the sudden wave of guilt that’s splashing over me.

“Right. Yes, last night,” he says, dry cynicism overwhelming the hollow dread. “You came in at about nine, went straight to your room, and were out the door before I even woke up.” My half-brother uncovers his eyes and looks at me with just the hint of a knowing smile. “And that brings up the question of whereyou’vebeen sleeping for the the past, what, week? Ten days?”

“None of your damn business,” I say, hoping to stomp that line of questioning flat. “Anyway. I want to talk aboutyou. Why didn’t you call me or something? Or send me a text at least?”

“What for?”

I roll my eyes at him. I just don’t get it. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what I do for work.

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