Page 105 of Her Dark Lies
My dad got me settled in the car, gentle as an egg, putting the safety belt across my body and latching it without a word. When he climbed in, he said, “Claire. What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“You want to try telling me the truth, for once?”
“Fine. Some Molly. It’s no big deal. Everyone was doing it.”
“Are you going to be sick in my car?”
“No.”
Though I did feel sick, the remnants of the adrenaline rush ready to spill from my pores.
“Did that boy hurt you?”
He was looking at the livid red bruise on my arm, and I tucked it to my body and stared out the window. The patrol car bearing Shane was pulling out, and he didn’t look my way, not even once. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”
My father didn’t speak anymore, only started the car and put it carefully in gear. He didn’t speak until we were nearly home.
“Your mother and I have decided you’re going to rehab. It’s the best thing for you to do.”
“Since when do you and Mom talk?” I spit out, my fear abating in the face of anger and something else, a combination of hope and humiliation. Rehab meant I could get away from Shane and get straight, the former of which was appealing, but rehab also meant leaving all my friends and having the stigma of a recovery center forever in my past. No. No!
“I won’t go. You can’t make me.”
“Claire. You’ve been acting out for months now. You’ve been expelled from school, you’re covered in tattoos and piercings, you’re doing drugs and God knows what else. Your mother and I don’t recognize you anymore. You’ve been hurting yourself. No one else. But tonight...no, my little girl, you crossed the line. I don’t know what really happened with you and that greasy jerk back there, but he robbed that Mapco, with a weapon, and you were driving the car. He has drugs on his person, and you’re clearly messed up. You’ve given us no choice. The police are being rather generous, I think, not just hauling you downtown. It’s rehab or jail, and I think you’ll enjoy rehab much more.”
“Fuck off.”
He looked over at me, the shock and hurt rippling across his face, and I felt at once ashamed, so ashamed, and emboldened. If he had been stronger, Mom wouldn’t have fucked some other guy. If he’d paid more attention to all of us instead of his precious patients, they wouldn’t be getting divorced. If...if...if...
I screamed all of this at him, followed it up with “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!” for good measure, reached for the wheel of the car, and—
I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
“And that’s all I remember. When I woke up, in the hospital, he was dead, and I was broken.”
“And you’ve never healed, have you,” Will says, reaching over to pat my knee. “You’ve carried this for so long. You poor girl.”
I get that ridiculous feeling of outrage and unease that accompanies any show of pity for my plight. I don’t deserve pity. I never have. I killed my father. I deserve hell.
“I’ll always carry it. It’s my fault he’s dead. I killed him. I think I was trying to kill myself. I never thought it would take him instead.”
Will nods, slowly, sadly. “Ah, but look at you now. You learned a very hard lesson, and you changed. You altered the course of your life, by choice. Many, many young women would have plummeted, would have been dragged into the abyss. But you didn’t. You showed great courage, my girl. It takes grit to change.
“And now you’re a celebrated painter. About to be married. You know he’s looking down on you, so happy that you’re happy. It’s all any father wants for his child. Trust me. Brice said some terrible things to me growing up. I knew he didn’t mean it, not really. Something you need to remember, though. As a Compton, there will be extra scrutiny on you. Perhaps even judgment. But it’s your heart that matters. Follow your heart, young Claire. It will never steer you wrong.”
I swallow the last of the Scotch. It’s strong, and I’m feeling lightheaded.
“You’re kind to listen. I appreciate it. And the advice.”
When Will Compton smiles, it’s easy to see how he charmed half of Europe. “You’re my granddaughter now, dear. You can talk to me about anything.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but the words are out before I have a chance to think.
“Tell me about Morgan. Tell me how she died.”
“I think that’s my story to tell,” Jack says, stepping into the library.
