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I blink. “What do you mean? I dealt with it a long time ago. The fight with Eliza had nothing to do with your mom.”
“Then why hire a PI—”
I stop cold.
“How did you know about the investigator?” I swallow harshly.
I always got the feeling Dess knows more than she lets on. She’s a bright kid, so it’s hard to hide anything from her, but she couldn’t have just guessed this.
“Troy told me,” she whispers.
Dickhead.
Of course, he did.
Even after I asked him not to.
“Destiny, there were a few loose ends and I wanted a second opinion. The man came to the same conclusions. That’s all.”
“What loose ends? Was it the robbery that got you so upset? You know it’s not Eliza’s fault I was attacked, right?” She stares at me, her soft-blue eyes hurting.
“I left you in her care and—”
“Hold up. You’re the one who left me at the library that morning. You’ve left me alone before and never worried about it. Something happened when we went to Kona, didn’t it?” She pauses, slowly breathing. “I’m fifteen, Dad. You were always pretty fair with me going out as long as I checked in or you knew who I was with. But you’re freaking out all the time now. It’s like you think Mom got killed by some psycho or something. Why?”
That isn’t what I think...is it?
I frown.
There may be a whisper of truth to what she said, a wild possibility gnawing at my mind, but it’s not that serious.
“Did Troy tell you that too?” I hold my breath, hoping like hell my supposed friend isn’t that stupid.
“No,” she mouths. “I think you’re just on edge. You always were about what happened with Mom, and then with me... It sent your paranoia into overdrive.”
I start to shake my head, but stop because it’s true.
She’s right, even if I haven’t admitted it to myself.
Fucking hell.
Nothing about the last ten years of my life sits well with me, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s all nerves and adrenaline and paranoid delusions after all.
“Also, I’m not dumb. I didn’t need anyone to tell me all that, Dad. Uncle Troy just helped put things into perspective and like, clarified my own thoughts.”
Did he?
I’d like to clarify a few things for him—possibly with my fist.
“How did this come up, Dess?”
Her face tightens. “You’ve always said how strange it was that she was wandering around at night. You always said nobody goes to the beach in their heels—”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, so, it doesn’t take a mastermind to figure out what you’re not saying. You still think something happened to Mom. Something that wasn’t an accident, or—” She stops before she says suicide. “But you’ve let it get to your head. You way overreacted with Eliza—you were unhinged—and all because you can’t let go of this weird idea that something happened to Mom. She was crazy, Dad. Clinically depressed or whatever, yeah, but crazy. And now you’re afraid something awful will happen to me.”
I consider my next words carefully.
“Your mom was a lot of things, Destiny, but I wouldn’t call her insane.”
“She took her own life!” she whispers sharply, her eyes searching mine. “You know she did. Sane people don’t kill themselves. It hurts. I hate that she did it. I hate that she couldn’t get better. I hate that nobody stopped her. But I accept it—and I just don’t get why you can’t?”
“Your mom was no angel. Hell, Aster could be pretty self-absorbed sometimes.” My jaw tightens before I continue. “Still, this suicide doesn’t make sense with anything she ever said or did. You probably don’t remember much, but—”
“Dad, I remember a lot more than you think. Mom was acting weird that whole week. She fired my latest nanny and left me with the housekeeper. Kalani and I didn’t mind. She fed me Hawaiian wedding cake cookies and taught me how to juice pineapple and do laundry.” Destiny bites her lip and looks away. “I feel really bad about saying this...but she was more fun than Mom.”
“It’s okay to be honest,” I say, looking down as I throw an arm around her shoulders.
“Yeah, well, Mom was running in and out all week. Way more than usual, I think, and always saying she had some wellness class or yoga thing. Then one day she slipped out without ever slipping back in.”
I study her sad eyes, trying to decide how much of this memory is real, and what parts were invented to cope with a brutal loss.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
“I took you to a child psychologist not long after it happened. You got so quiet on us I knew you were hurting. The doctor had you draw a lot.” I pause, smiling dryly at the memory. “You drew your mother as an angel once. She gave you toys and watched you play. We tried talking about therapy and I checked her work with a few other shrinks. They all agreed you didn’t have any concrete memories of losing your mother, besides her leaving and not coming back. You didn’t have deep memories beyond playing with her, having her do your hair, things like that.”
