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She signs, Liar.
“Enough.” She’s so brazen sometimes and if she gets too comfortable, it could be bad for her. “Apologize.”
Sorry. She snaps her hands in a jerky way, not looking at all sorry, but it’s better than nothing.
I need for her to stay on her toes because the weekends are always the worst for us. Two whole days stuck at home with Dad. Our chances of pissing him off are greater, which means she can’t afford to behave this way. Not even with me.
“I’m going to check on Dad.” I make sure to also sign the words.
Her playfulness fades and she scowls. Why?
“Della,” I admonish. “Don’t be rude.”
Don’t be mad at me. She swallows hard and then signs, I just don’t want to live with Dad anymore. I want us to move far away. Can we, Landry? Please? She signs the word please like five more times in a row, her eyes glossing over with tears.
My heart cracks right down the center. I know she hates him as much as I do. Sometimes, when curled up in bed together whenever Dad’s out of town, she expresses these types of wishes. They all seem like far away fantasies. This plea, though, isn’t some fantasy. It’s desperation—a desperation I feel echoing in my soul.
One day soon, I sign to her, but no more talk of that right now. It’s not safe.
Her shoulders slump, dropping her gaze to her lap. The defeat written all over her kills me. I wish I could give her what she wants right now, but I can’t. And talking about this stuff is reckless and dangerous. Neither of us can afford to slip up. Especially when he’s at home, forced to rest. It’ll give him too much time to think—too much time to notice what his daughter is up to.
He’ll notice Ford.
Start asking questions.
Then, the accusations will fly.
I can’t allow that.
Since my sister is done talking to me, I get up and leave her room. Sandra is off for the weekend. One of the cooks, Gloria, comes in early on Saturday mornings to prepare meals for the weekends, but is usually gone by noon. Then, it’s just the three of us.
Suppressing a shudder, I make my way to Dad’s room. At one time, I loved running in there on Saturday mornings. I’d wriggle between Mom and Dad, begging for them to turn on cartoons. They’d indulge me and Dad would have Gloria bring us all breakfast in bed. Chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped topping for me.
I haven’t touched one since Mom died.
I haven’t done a lot of things since she died.
That innocent kid died right along with her. That kid was forced to grow into an adult who has to protect her little sister. I’d be bitter that I’ve lost the easy parts of my life, but I don’t regret the relationship I have with Della. I love her and know Mom would be proud that I look after her, making sure her life is as normal as possible.
God, I miss Mom, though. So much.
Dad is sitting up in bed on his usual side, a laptop perched on his thighs over the sheet. His hair is messy and dark blond scruff is growing in on his cheeks. The bruising on his face is worse today, swollen and dark purple.
“Hi, Dad,” I greet, my voice cheery. “Doing okay today?”
He looks up from his laptop, cutting his icy blue eyes my way. “Feel like hell, but I’ll heal. Work never stops. Missing two days while in the middle of this Tokyo deal has really been an inconvenience.”
“I’m sorry.”
He frowns. “It’s not your fault.”
That’s debatable.
“If you need anything, just—”
“Come sit,” he says, his tone stern. “Like old times. You used to love to watch me work.”
Used to.
Back when I was naïve and thought my dad hung the moon. Before I saw he was a man of shadows hidden behind a sunbeam smile.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” I utter, fidgeting in the doorway.
“Never.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come cuddle, sweetheart.”
My hands tremble, but fisting them helps keep the shaking at bay. I make my way over to the bed and climb on. He lifts the sheet, inviting me to get under them with him.
Della was right.
I shouldn’t have checked on him.
But I need to feel him out. To see what he knows, if anything. If he suspects I had anything to do with it, I’ll need a strategy to talk my way out of it.
His smile is warm, but he’s guarded. It puts me on edge too. Maybe he can sense the whirl of emotions inside me. Usually, I’m much better at hiding the fear and hatred I have toward him. Ford, though, distracts me and makes things difficult for me.
Last night, before I went to sleep, I deleted any trace of conversations between me and Ford. I even went as far as to change the contact to “Study Partner Girl Whose Name I Can’t Remember” in case he asks about the number. I’m hoping he’s been too busy with the attack to dig that far into what I’m doing. Still, I can’t be too careful.
