Page 152 of Wicked Minds
“What about with Riley? I wasn’t a little kid then and I still missed the signs. What sort of person am I related to? Whose blood is in my veins? If my father is this monster, does that make me one too?”
“You’re not your dad, Gray,” I state resolutely.
He only shakes his head, not believing me. “The most fucked up part of it all is that I still can’t compute the two. In my mind, there’s this man who did these awful things to people I care about, and then there’s my dad. The man I’ve known my entire life. How does that even make sense?”
“It’s a fucked up thing to try to understand,” I tell him. “You won’t be able to in a day or two. Hell, you probably need a lifetime of therapy to fully acknowledge that shit.”
My dad has always been an asshole. He made no attempts to hide it. He was never really interested in having children. Only agreed to have me because he felt like he had to—both for social reasons and to continue the King line. I have never been anything other than an asset to him, one which lost a hell of a lot of credibility after the rape scandal at the end of my senior year of high school. The one that’s been tailing me like a case of Gonorrhea that won’t go the fuck away.
“There’s this person that did…that…the one Gran is petrified of and believes hurt my mom… Then there’s the dad that I know, that I grew up with, that I learned from and see every month at the prison… that’s not… How can they be the same person? How could I not have seen it? He’s always been cold and aloof. Driven. Demanding. He’s not the easiest to get along with, and we don’t have the best of relationships, but that’s a far cry from…this.”
His resounding sigh is born of profound exhaustion, the sound of a soul that’s adrift at sea; a concession to the relentless struggles and uncertainties that plague him.
“I never took a psychology class,” I tell him, “but your dad is incredibly good at hiding his true self. At convincing everyone around him to see what he wants them to see… including you.”
Sighing, he turns away from me, absently watching the fields pass by outside his window. “Yeah.I have no idea who my father actually is.”
We lapse into silence, the radio the only sound as I speed along the freeway, inching closer to Springview.
“What are you expecting to happen tonight?” he asks sometime later. “What do you think Lydia’s up to?”
“You tell me, you know her better than I do.”
He scoffs, the sound caustic and cold. “I already told you the vague impression I had of her from back then, and based on what Logan had to say, I was completely off base.” He shakes his head, muttering bitterly, “Clearly, I don’t know anyone.”
Lips pursed, I stay quiet. I feel bad for the guy. What must it be like to find out your dad isn’t who you thought he was? I do understand what it’s like to question your ability to deduce someone’s character, though.
I fell victim to the same crime—thinking someone was a completely different person from who they turned out to be.
Melissa had been outgoing, flirty, popular… a cheerleader, and a fellow senior. We’d been in some of the same classes over our four years in high school together and ran in similar friendship cliques. I knew she had a thing for me, and one night at a party, I’d had a couple of beers and made the worst mistake of my life.
She was someone I thought I knew.
I thought it was no big deal.
Until the cops were putting me in handcuffs…
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Grayson asks as I pull the car up to the curb and stare down the wide, cobblestone street. We’re in the old, historic part of Springview, which has been gentrified recently and is now bustling with numerous restaurants, clubs, and bars.
Old meets new as the brick buildings weathered from the passage of time clash with large glass fronts and steel beams, each establishment busier than the last, the Springview nightlife alive and vibrant.
I double-checked the address on the GPS, which matches the street sign. “Yup, this is the street.”
“Doesn’t exactly speak secret, back-alley meeting,” Gray muses.
“No, but there are plenty of people around, which is why I’m guessing she picked it. Right, stay here. Keep your head down.” I toss him a Halston U ballcap, waiting until he puts it on, pulling it low over his eyes as he slouches down in his seat.
“Good luck,” he calls as I exit the car. I walk past rowdy restaurants and bars as I amble down the street, passing groups of people and the occasional couple. Antique lamp postsadorned with orange ironwork cast a warm, flickering glow, creating an inviting ambiance that coaxes you further into the bustle.
Halfway down the street, I stop outside a nondescript building. Three stories tall, the lights are off in each of the small, narrow, paned windows.
There is a railing around the edge of the building, with stairs leading to a basement level. At the top of them is a small, almost missable cast iron sign embossed with gold music notes on an S-shaped staff—the only hint that the building is anything other than vacant.
Looking around the busy street, no one seems to be paying me any attention as I descend the old, uneven steps to a small, open doorway. I’m met with more rickety stairs, these steep and narrow.
With every step I take, the air grows thicker, musty as though, wherever I’m headed, time has stood still. Brass lanterns emit a soft glow, providing just enough light for me to see as the distant sound of music reaches my ears.
Reaching the bottom, I’m met with a low ceiling, the rich scent of aged wood and cigar smoke hitting me hard. The music is louder now, the sultry jazz notes pulling me down the claustrophobic hallway and through another doorway.
