Page 83 of Justice

“You’re gonna regret this,” she whispered.

“Is that a threat?” I stepped in close, close enough that she had to look up at me, and I dropped my voice all down to the register nobody in my life ever wants to hear from me. “But understand me, Kira. Real clear. If you ever come to my house again. If you ever put your hands near my children again. If you so much as call my phone one more time. It is not gonna be a conversation. You knew Monica twenty years, which means you know me almost that long, which means you know I don’t make threats. I make promises. And I keep every single one.”

The color went out of her face.

“Now walk to your car.” I stepped back and gave her the room to do it. “And don’t ever let me see you on my land again.”

She set the little gift bag down on the pavement between us like it still meant something, and she walked to her car on unsteady legs, and she drove off my property too fast, tires chirping at the gate.

I stood there until I couldn’t see her taillights anymore. My chest was so tight. I couldn’t understand what the fuck my daughter thought she was doing.

I was still standing outside trying to get my chest right when the driver pulled up with the girls from school.

Dream came out first, running, backpack bouncing, hollering about a gold star she got in reading. I caught her up, kissed her and told her I was proud. I meant it, even standing there shaking with what just left my driveway.

Then Storie stepped out, and here came the performance. Sweet as anything, little smile on, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Hi, Daddy.”

She had no idea Kira had already come and gone. No idea her little phone call had detonated in the driveway she was walking across. She breezed toward the house with her backpack on one shoulder, playing the good daughter. That smile, on a girl who’d gone behind my back to sneak a banished woman to my home, turned my stomach.

“Dream, take it in the house and go show Grandma Rita and Miss Skye,” I said. “Go on now.”

Dream ran. The door shut behind her.

“Storie.” It took everything I had to say it calm. “How did you call Kira?”

“I used Brie’s phone and called her at school. I just wanted her to bring my stuff.”

“I told you I didn’t want you talking to her anymore. You went around my back and invited her back to this house.” I stared at my child. “So I’m gonna ask you one time, and I want you to think about how you answer. What is wrong with you, Storie? For real. What is going on with you? Because you skip school for a man. You lie to my face for weeks. Now you’re running people in and out my house behind my back like you the one in charge. I’m a minute away from sending your lil ass to military school.”

Her chin trembled. The mask slipped, just at the edges.

“I just wanted my bag,” she said. Her voice cracked, and the tears came up fast and real. Or real enough. “I left my Von Dutch there. Plus some make-up. I left them at Kira’s spot from the last time I stayed over. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I just wanted my stuff back and I knew you’d say no if I asked. That’s all it was, Daddy. I swear.”

She cried but I didn’t soften. I couldn’t afford to anymore. But I didn’t get louder either.

“A bag.” I said it quiet. “You brought that woman back into my house, after everything, over a bag and some lip gloss.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you wanted it that bad, you come to me. You say, Daddy, Kira’s got my things, can you get them. And I would’ve gotten them. That’s what I’m here for. Me. Not her.” I leaned down so she couldn’t look anywhere but at me. “You do not talk to Kira again. You do not call her, text her, none of it. Ever. She is done. She was done the day she took you to a doctor behind my back and taught you to keep a secret from your own father. You understand me?”

She nodded, wiping her face.

“And one more thing.” I straightened up. “You’ve got an appointment tomorrow. Somebody I found for you to talk to. A therapist. You’re going. That’s not a punishment and it’s not up for a discussion. Something’s hurting in you and I can’t reach it, and I’m done pretending I can fix it by myself. I love you too much to keep losing you a piece at a time. So we’re getting you help. Starting tomorrow.”

For just a second, her eyes did something I couldn’t name. Not gratitude. Not relief.

Something closer to calculation.

Then it was gone, and she was just my crying teenage daughter again, nodding, saying “okay, Daddy,” and going inside.

I was out of punishments for her. If therapy didn’t work I wasn’t sure what to do next.

42

SKYE