Page 57 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

“I found you, Mills. It’s day four. Where’s my money?”

Horror drains the color from the park. As I watch Lola frolic toward a tree further up the hill without a care in the world, I pray with every ounce of my being she doesn’t turn around.

She can’t meet my father. I yearn to protect her with the same viciousness I did before, but my father steps in front of me, and I become the heartbroken girl who lost so much so suddenly she could hardly breathe. I cower as he squeezes my bruised nape.

It’s my fault my brother almost died in the womb. My fault my mother is weak and frail. My fault Artur died, had to be resuscitated, and spent months recovering in the hospital. My fault Regina left me. My fault everyone hates me.

Lola’s hug didn’t hurt, but my father’s snarl reaches deep into my psyche while his fingers grind against my bones.

He turns, pulls me against his side, and points to Lola.

“Is that the little brat you’re getting paid to babysit?” he asks.

Lola reaches the tree and turns. My heart stops. I can’t move. Fear and uncertainty fill her expression. She slips her thumb into her mouth.

“I bet she’s worth a lot, huh?” my father sneers.

I shake my head. He squeezes so hard my fingertips burn and my head throbs.

“Call her over,” he demands.

No. He’ll hurt her. She can’t come closer.

He lifts his chin and raises his voice. “Hey, sweetheart. Come here and—”

The fake sweetness reminds me too much of the horrors he created throughout my childhood. He coaxed my mother with the same voice, and he always used that tone when he wanted me to cover up the signs of his abuse while we were in public.

Lola needs to escape. Now.

Memories weigh down my limbs, but my voice breaks through.

“Run, Lola!”

Her eyes widen and her pupils shrink, but she doesn’t move. I scared her. She’s terrified of women screaming.

My father curses, grabs my arm, and drags me forward. I hold eye contact with Lola and force myself to speak in my calm, professional tone.

“Run to Daddy, lovie. Now.”

Her face scrunches. She flees.

My father releases my arm and swings. I brace for his palm against my cheek.

It never comes.

Thick, scarred fingers wrap around his forearm and yank him away before Artur’s fist streaks across my vision. My father’s grip on my nape jerks me backward, but arms made of steel wrap around me and tug me forward. Pulled flush against Artur’s front, I move on a delay and grab his waist.

He pivots, deposits me behind him, swings back around, blocks my father’s punch, and buries his fist in my father’s stomach so fast I can barely track it. As my father doubles over, Artur forces him upright and lands several short, vicious jabs before grabbing my father’s shoulders and slamming him back against the tree.

I stare in shock as Artur more or less recreates my last interaction with my father. Everything he did to me four days ago, Artur does to him with chilling force. The brutal impacts scrape the bark off the tree and shake the leaves from the branches. When blood from the back of my father’s head drips down the trunk, I lunge forward and wrap both arms around Artur’s stomach from behind.

A tiny body slams into our legs and locks us together with shaking arms.

Lola. She’s too close to my father. Too close to violence. Too close to me.

I failed her. Horribly.

I need to leave. Bad things always happen when I’m around. It’s all my fault. I can’t stay.