Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Because I am what’s wrong with her life. I’m the reason for her destruction. That’s why I’m removing myself from the equation now that I know she’s going to be all right.
For once, she’s not the only thing on my mind as I roll up the driveway. I’m like the lead actor at the end of an action movie. I feel like somebody kicked the shit out of me, like I’ve lost everything I ever thought was important. Somehow, I need to find it in me to pull together the strength for one more fight. The biggest fight. The one everything hinges on.
It’s a fight that’s been brewing for eleven years, ever since the day I lost Mom. As much as I hate looking back, I force myself to sit with the memories after I park in front of the house. It’s quiet, peaceful, lit in its normal way by lights shining upward, highlighting the immaculate grounds, the shining windows, the manicured topiaries. Nobody would guess a killer lives behind those walls.
But did he kill his wife? Was she acting strange in the days before she died? There I was, eight years old, with my head firmly up my ass. All I cared about was my video games. She could’ve marched a fifty-piece band through the house with a banner in front of them that said Your dad is a murderer, and I would’ve gone back to whatever I was playing. I was that oblivious.
So maybe she was planning to take me away. I have a hard time believing she never knew anything about what Dad did, how he made his money. Maybe back then, he actually tried to hide it. Now, what’s the point? There’s no reason to.
I know what I’m doing. I’m stalling. I need to know if Dante was telling the truth, but this is the kind of pivotal moment I can’t pretend never happened. There won’t be any way to forget whatever it is he tells me.
I can’t let it go, though. I need to know, either way. For Mom. For me.
Slowly walking up the front steps, I think of her. Making Christmas cookies together in the kitchen. The way she beamed with pride and love, crouching next to me while I sat in front of my birthday cake with all the candles lit.
I only got up to eight before she was taken away from me. Eight candles, that’s it.
Her sweet voice used to sing all of her favorite songs from when she was a kid, sort of off-key but with plenty of enthusiasm. She used to say that made up for her lack of talent. And then she would sing louder, and I would sing with her, until the car was filled with our voices and laughter.
All this time, I believed a story someone told me about how I lost her. I tried to put the past behind me because it hurt too damn much. That was wrong.
I’m sorry, Mom. It’s not that I don’t love you.
Tonight, I’m going to set things straight. I’m going to honor the memories I fought against for so long.
He’s already upstairs. The first floor is quiet; his study is dark. My heavy feet take one slow step after another to the second floor. There’s light coming from under his bedroom door. My heart thumps slowly, all of tonight’s events replaying in my head. Watching the light leave Dante’s eyes. Holding Tamson’s limp body against my chest before tearing through the night. The complete, soul-crushing guilt in those tense moments before I knew she’d be okay. The almost crippling relief when one of the doctors told me I got her there just in time.
The agony of having to say goodbye, though I knew it was for the best.
I hope this is for the best, too. Knocking against the door, opening it when he grunts.
He’s sitting up in bed, a glass of whiskey on the nightstand, a MacBook open on his lap. “Everything all right?” he asks with a wary look in his eyes. He sets aside the glasses he uses for reading, closing the computer. I guess I look pretty much the way I feel if he’s turning his full attention on me.
“No. It isn’t.” I’m not going to bother wasting time. Too much time has been wasted already. And I want to catch him like this, off-guard so his reaction will be real. He taught me more than he knows over the years about interrogation. “What happened to Mom? I mean, what really happened? How did she die?”
He doesn’t jump in surprise, doesn’t put on a big show. Instead, he moves slowly, probably trying to come up with a good excuse while he pulls the blankets back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The master of his domain, wearing silk pajamas like some kind of kingpin. It’s all so sad and shabby underneath.