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Maybe we couldn’t get rid of the house, but we could at least get rid of everything my father ever touched. Would that purge us of his evil?
And did I even want to be purged?
Because that was the cold, hard truth.
He had been my father, and he had been a good father, even though he’d turned out to be the embodiment of evil.
So what did that make me?
The spawn of evil?
The spawn of evil who had nothing but pleasant memories of his father for nearly the whole time he was alive?
My father had brutalized men, women, and children. Raped them. Tortured them. And then he’d come home and spent time with me. Read to me. Helped me learn long division. Taken me camping and fishing with Joe. Taught me how to hit a baseball. Shown me how to throw a perfect spiral. Taught me how to shoot a gun.
Taught me how to be a man.
A shudder ran through me.
What kind of man was I if he had been my inspiration, my role model?
My father?
Yes, I wanted to purge this house—my life—of everything he’d touched.
But I didn’t want to just as much.
Because as much as my father had been a truly evil man, he’d also been a good father.
Reconciling those two facts was impossible and the biggest reason why I was a fucked-up mess at the moment.
“Tell them to only pack the personal items in my room,” I told my mother. “The bed and other furnishings can be burned, for all I care. Everything he touched can be burned.” Then I left the house.
An hour later, I arrived at the agree
d-upon café in Grand Junction to meet with Ted Morse. He was already there, sitting in a booth. The hostess pointed him out to me.
I approached him and cleared my throat. “I’m Bryce Simpson.”
He stood. “Mr. Simpson. Ted Morse.” He held out his hand, but I didn’t take it. “Please. Have a seat.”
I resisted the urge to blurt out an apology for what my father had done to his son. I am not responsible for the sins of my father—a mantra I tried, but more often than not failed, to live by.
Silence stretched for an unbearable few seconds that seemed like hours. He’d invited me here, and I’d agreed to come to gather information for the Steels. I had nothing to say to him other than the apology on the tip of my lips. I kept them tightly closed. I would not start this conversation out by putting myself in a vulnerable position. I owed the Steels better.
Ted finally opened his mouth, but we were interrupted by our server, a middle-aged woman with graying hair. “Good morning,” she said to me. “What’ll it be?”
“Just coffee,” I said. If I tried eating while facing Ted Morse, I might spew.
“Coming right up.”
Alone again, facing the man whose son my father had ruined. I owed him nothing, especially after he’d tried to blackmail my best friend. Still, guilt gnawed at me.
I cleared my throat again. “So, Mr. Morse, what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Ted, please. And I’ll call you Bryce.”
“Okay. Fine.” Though I didn’t really see the point. We weren’t friends. We weren’t colleagues. We weren’t anything, really.
