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He stared at me blankly.
After a long, tense pause, he adjusted his position. “Your baby brother, you mean.”
“Nope. All it took was one glance from Mom, and it all came out. Manuel is Brent’s kid.”
His face contorted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I removed two photos from my satchel. “Here. Who’s this?” I handed him a recent photo of Manuel.
The shake in his hand made me regret my tone. But the truth needed to be known.
“That’s Brent,” he said.
I started to take the photo, but he wouldn’t let me. “My life crashed with him that day. That’s when everything went to shit. He was my boy.” A tear fell down his withered cheek.
Even though his favor for my brother came as no surprise, resentment clung to me like a blood-sucking leech.
“That’s Manuel, not Brent.” I handed him another photo. “Here’s your beloved Brent. So you see, Manuel is my nephew and your grandchild.”
“That’s bullshit. You’ve always been jealous of your brother. And he can’t fucking defend himself. How dare you?”
I’d had enough. He could rot in hell.
I rose abruptly, fury pumping through me. “How dare you turn the Peace name to filth and leave me to clean up after your illegal fucking get-rich-schemes? I suppose you sold crack to homeless kids too.” At that moment, I saw him only as the charlatan sharp-talker he’d always been and not a frail man. “You’re a pedophile, a fraud, and a fucking cheat. And Brent was fucking Tamara. You were exactly alike. That’s why you loved him.”
His mouth opened, then he collapsed onto his pillow.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Instead of clearing the air, I’d dirtied it.
Did I kill him? I leaned forward and touched his neck, holding my breath until the vein pulsed faintly on my fingertip.
After I explained to the nurse that he’d fainted, I ran away, taking with me his cold, empty stare.
How the fuck could a man be that way? Especially close to death. Shouldn’t he seek redemption? As a lapsed catholic, I felt the sudden urge to see a priest, if only to help me deal with my gut-wrenching guilt from hating my father. And why am I helping him? I should have walked away and let him rot in hell.
My phone buzzed, and when I saw it was Miranda, my spirit warmed. “Hey, good looking,” I said, faking a cheery vibe.
“Lachlan, I’m at your apartment.”
“Wearing little, I hope.”
“I’ve got the insurance adjuster here. Can you get here now?”
“Sure. I’m only down the road. What’s wrong?”
“Just get here.”
She ended the call.
The cold, shivery sensation that had followed me out of the hospital turned glacial.
