Page 86 of Darkness of Mine
The clattering of the drawers and mugs is a soothing soundtrack, a reminder that Freya’s right here with me.
I set my gaze on my father. “So, talk.”
He stares at the worn red cap in his hands, scrunching the material between his thick fingers. Eventually, he looks up at me. “He really dead?”
A low, dry laugh huffs out of me. Of course, that’s why he’s here. The man spent the adult portion of my life telling me I’m a failure for not catching the man who killed my mother and the moment I do, he turns up like everything’s fucking dandy now.
I dig my hand into my neck only to regret it because the skin that got burned is still fucking sore.
“Yeah, Dad, he’s dead. I put a bullet through his brain. Are you proud of me now?”
Apparently ignoring the heavy sarcasm my dad shakes his head. “I’ve always been proud of you.”
I laugh louder this time. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“Elijah—”
“Is that all you wanted? Just to check it wasn’t fake news?”
“No, I?—”
“And why now? It’s been over two months since we caught Maxwell.”
He waits a moment, ready for me to cut him off again. When I don’t, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, circular chip. “I had to do something first.” He hands me the chip. “I’m two months sober.”
I turn the gold plastic over in my fingers. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that. “Congratulations.” The word holds no weight, and a weird numbness douses the fire of my anger.
I spent my entire early teens wishing my dad would get sober, begging him to go to meetings, to talk to someone, anyone, about losing mom.
I was never enough of a reason for him to stop drinking and it fucking hurts that killing Maxwell is what finally did it. Like his sobriety has been in my hands this whole time and if I’d killed Maxwell sooner, I’d have gotten my father back.
Before my mom was murdered, he was a good dad. We’d watch hockey games together and every vacation he’d take me to my grandfather’s ranch and teach me to ride. It’s hard to reconcile that man with the one who missed my first high school hockey finals because he was passed out on the couch.
Freya hands my father a steaming mug and sits down beside me. She rests her hand on my knee and offers me the second mug.
I shake my head. Freya’s touch brings me back to the present, but it also reminds me that my father’s not the only one with questions. There’s a reason I let him in.
We learned something while hunting Maxwell and the potential implication of it has haunted me ever since. Part of me just wants to leave it the fuck alone. Who does it really hurt if I keep those happy memories, that decent version of a dad who actually loved me, alive in my head?
I owe it to my mom though, to know the truth. And maybe I owe it to my father too. He’s sober now and as much as Idon’t want to admit it, that makes a difference. If I don’t like the answer to my question though, it won’t matter.
I rub at the good side of my neck, trying to find the nerve to speak.
Freya takes her eyes off me and turns to my father. “I’m Freya,” she says, buying me some time to get myself together.
My dad gives her a brief smile. “Eddie. Are you with my son?”
Freya nods and my hand clamps down over hers on top of my leg. It suddenly occurs to me that if my dad figures out Freya is Maxwell’s daughter, he’s not just going to sit there and smile at her.
I fight down the urge to hide her away. I know she won’t leave me to deal with this on my own, so I find the fucking words and ask my dad what I need to know.
“Did you ever hit Mom?”
His already sallow skin pales and a trace of the vitriol the alcohol ignites flickers in his eyes. “What sort of question is that?”
“Before we found Maxwell, we discovered all of the women he killed were victims of domestic abuse. I know better than anyone that you can be violent so tell me, Dad, did you ever hurt Mom?”
I expect anger, shouting. What I don’t expect is for his bottom lip to tremble as he collapses back into the armchair and bursts into tears. He buries his face in his hands, the sobs silent as they wrack his shoulders.
