Page 91 of Make You Mine

“He’s also your dad’s part-time caretaker.” She exchanges a look with Russell. “I go out for work three times a week. I’m renting a small space. Russell helps me out in the house with your father while I’m gone.”

“Alright.” I can’t really say much about it, nor do I care. “Nice to meet you, Russell.”

Whatever works for them is fine for me.

This is not why I’m here, and I don’t have time to waste.

“He’s a genius with computers,” Miranda says, attempting to make a bit more conversation. “He’s helping me figure out some coding. I’ve been studying it myself, but I’m terrible at it. I’ve been hiring until now. It’s about time I do it on my own.”

I cough out a laugh.

Ironic, isn’t it? Russell sounds like the perfect son for my father, and he’s probably around the same age as I am, too. I was once supposed to be his coding legacy.

“That’s cool,” I say. I couldn’t give less fucks.

“Yeah,” Russell says. “If you ever need any help with anything, I’m your guy.”

A smile slips out of his lips, and he presses both hands into his pockets.

“Sure thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I glance at Miranda. “I have to talk to my father for a moment.”

“We’ll be here. Be gentle with him, please.” Miranda walks away with Russell.

I knock on the door of the room that used to be mine.

“Yes?” My father’s distinctive, authoritarian voice calls from the other side.

If you heard him, you wouldn’t know he’s sick.

“It’s Kayden.”

He groans. “Come in.”

I let myself into the room, where my father’s sitting at a desk, the bed right next to it unmade.

He’s wearing black, soft-looking pajamas, his once salt-and-pepper hair is lighter, shorter, and almost gone. The features on his face are worn out.

He’s leaning forward against the computer, his hand clutching the mouse.

I take a peek at what’s keeping him busy, so busy that he doesn’t turn to greet his only son.

A laugh gargles up my throat. Fucking Lucas A’gosto. Unbelievable.

He’s playing fucking poker on the screen.

I scoff before leaning against the wall.

What did I expect, really? For him to be yelling at me? Welcome me with a slap?

In his current condition, he wouldn’t be working or threatening me, would he?

That doesn’t make him any less terrifying. My father is the living proof of evil in this world.

No matter how different the image in front of me is now, he still shakes me to my bones.

“Hey, Dad,” I force myself to say, but there’s still no reaction from him.

He’s clicking away at the mouse, pressing damn cards on a deck on the computer.