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She moved so her mouth was close to his ear. “I’m scared,” she whispered.
“As am I.” Monk backed away and scrubbed his face with his hand. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
She looked into his eyes. “Okay.”
“Not here. Later, but before we go back to your house.”
“You’re worrying me a little, Monk. Can you give me any idea what it’s about?”
“I need to tell you about my father.”
—:—
Saylor ate very little of her dinner, not that Monk expected her to eat much, particularly after dropping the bomb about needing to talk about his father. He had no idea why he’d brought it up like he had, or even why it suddenly became so urgent that he tell her about what happened. All he knew was if they were going to make a commitment of any kind to each other, she needed to know about the second thing that contributed to him becoming the man he was today.
He’d already told her about his sister, and as hard as that story had been to get out, this one was more difficult. Instead of driving Saylor back to her place, he parked the Jeep on one of the scenic overlooks that dotted the Yachats highway.
“My father wasn’t around a lot when I was growing up,” he began, looking out at the ocean rather than at
her. “What I found out when I was a teenager, a few years after my sister’s death, was that he’d spent most of his time away from us in prison. My mother never wanted us to know, so she said nothing.”
“I do the same thing with my girls,” Saylor said as though she was defending his mother’s actions.
“You’re right to, particularly given their age.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“All kinds of stuff. Armed robbery, drug trafficking. He wasn’t a very good man. After my sister died, he got worse.”
Saylor turned in her seat so she was looking directly at him. Monk couldn’t do the same.
“What happened?”
“It could’ve been that I was older and could more easily see the signs, but he became increasingly abusive against my mother.” Out of the corner of his eye, Monk saw Saylor flinch and turn away from him. At that moment, he became more worried about her than how hard this story was to tell. He turned in his seat and took her hand in his. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks were flushed, and while she looked at him, she had a hard time maintaining eye contact.
“He never laid a hand on me, I suppose because he saw in my eyes what would happen if he did.” Monk took a deep breath, willing himself to continue the story he hadn’t told anyone for years. “I came home one night and saw his car in the driveway. I can’t explain the feeling that came over me, but I knew something was going to happen that night that would change me for the rest of my life.”
He met Saylor’s gaze. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“I could hear yelling, so instead of going in the front door of the house, I went around to the back. As I came up the back porch, I could see him. He had a baseball bat and was about to hit her.”
“What did you do?” Saylor whispered.
“I killed him,” he said with every finality he felt that night. “It was her or him.”
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing. Surprisingly. Not even manslaughter. The cops knew the history of our family. They also knew his record. It was determined to be self-defense almost immediately.”
“You did what you had to do, Monk.”
“My father was the first man I killed, Saylor. There have been others.”
“It’s part of what you do. Just like it’s part of what Razor does.”
