“Dad?”
Empty. Two stalls. One sink. No dad.
My pulse roared in my ears.
I stepped back into the hallway. And that’s when I saw it. The back exit door opened slightly with rain streaking in. Cold air blew in.
“Fuck.”
I shoved through it into the storm.
The woods behind the diner rose up immediately, dark and dense. The rain made everything slick and shadowed. The parking lot lights didn’t reach far.
And I knew.
I knew how this worked. Alzheimer’s and rain and confusion and bright lights. He would walk toward what felt familiar . . . or toward nothing at all.
“Dad!” I shouted.
The rain swallowed the sound.
Behind me, the door banged open. Tripp stumbled out, still talking.
“You think you can just ruin my life and?—”
I turned on him. “You let him wander.”
“He walked.”
“You were responsible for him!”
“He’s not my problem!”
That did it.
Something in me snapped clean in half.
Before I even registered the movement, my fist connected with his face. I should not find joy in the crunch I felt. I think I just broke his nose. There wasn’t even time to enjoy it.
He stumbled back into the muddy gravel, cursing.
“You selfish, bitch—” he began.
I didn’t wait for the rest.
I turned and ran toward the tree line.
“Dad!” I screamed again.
The woods swallowed the sound.
And the rain kept falling. I looked around. I think I know where he might be going. I head to my van to drive to the top of the bluff, to the place where he built me a tree house.
39
RAPHAEL
Ipaced. It was inefficient. I was aware of that. I did it anyway.
