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Emma
“Need to talk to you! Now!”
Mixed emotions flood my entire body.
The next thing I know, my father’s large fist is nearly banging holes through my front door. I can tell by his knock that the ‘need to talk to u’ message isn’t about something light, like, ‘what should I get your mom for our anniversary?’
No, it’s something heavy, like his fists against the entrance.
I fling the door open and can see the frustration folding lines into my father’s already weathered face.
“We need to talk,” he repeats as he barrels into my apartment.
“Yeah, I got your text. What’s up?”
He’s not taking a seat anywhere - that’s a bad sign. My father never sits during serious conversations.
“Where were you last night, Em?”
“Hm. Last night, last night… Gosh, it was so long ago I’m not sure I remember -”
“Be serious.”
My father’s voice is stern, setting me straight in a second flat.
“Sorry, I was trying to lighten the mood. I was here last night, why?”
“There was another fire at an abandoned home.”
He has yet to loosen his tight, tense air and I can feel it slowly transferring to me as my jaw tightens. My shoulders raise slightly, and I have to remind myself to let the weight go.
“Are you worried about someone targeting us or something? I’m super safe here, remember? You even inspected the place yourself, showed me all the exits-”
“No. It’s not quite that.”
A heavy sigh wafts from his mouth and a bit of strain falls from his shoulders. The motion isn’t relaxed, it’s preparing for the worst in the most exhausted way.
“The M.O. of this arson matches the rest and we suspect it’s the same person but there’s something different about this one,” he mumbles.
“And that is?”
I’m already sick of the riddles. I need him to spit it out.
“We may have a witness.”
“Well, that’s great. What’s the guy look like?”
“The witness reports seeing awomanleaving the scene. She looked young… Has long, white-blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.”
My heart drops and I can practically feel the elastic around my hair. My scalp aches at my sudden awareness of the tension on it.
“Wait… you’re not sayingI did this?”
“I have to have this conversation with you before anyone else does.”
A dense pause weighs heavy on our shoulders, and I can feel him debating whether or not he actually thinks I have the capability to do this. It’s times like this I wish I couldn’t read him so well. Why doesn’t he know me better than this? Where is his faith in me?
Suddenly, we’re strangers and the past twenty-five years- my whole life- it’s like he’s never really known me. He sees the surface, but what’s underneath that? What about my heart? What about my strength? Why doesn’t he know me the way I feel like I know him?
