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Of course he doesn't answer my question. "No." The memory of storming into my father's office when I had heard the raised voices and seeing Lilly's distraught face burned itself into my brain. Of-fucking-course I remember.
"I had consulted with a former associate on how we could help her cope. Lilly went through a lot at such an early age, and I didn't think she would make it out of it without long-term consequences, psychologically speaking." A lot? What the hell is he talking about? Dad's eyes are unfocused, and I clamp my mouth shut, afraid if I say anything, he'll stop talking. "She’s a special girl, you know that?" The corner of his mouth tilts up, and he briefly catches my gaze before training it back to something on the wall. "She has a kind heart, always has. She spent a lot of time with our family as a little girl, and your mom and I needed to help her. I explained to your mother what my associate could do. Initially, she was furious with me for even suggesting such an option."
My stomach churns at his vague descriptions. What could he have suggested that would have made Mom that angry? I swallow hard. "What did you do to her?"
Dad zeros in on my face. He's torn between walking out and coming clean—a conflict I've never seen on my father's face. He's always confident in everything he does.
"Her memory was manipulated through a form of hypnosis and persuasion."
Excuse me, what?
I stare at the man in front of me, refusing to believe what I just heard. I know he's been ruthless when it came to his job, no remorse and shit, but his child—adopted or not. How could he?
"Get. The. Fuck. Out." My body is shaking, and I keep my voice low to not wake up my little sister at the end of the hall. It takes every ounce of willpower not to take a swing at him, my balled fists already twitching with the need to pound something. Someone. Him!
He must realize that it won't do any good to argue, so he draws in a deep breath, stands up, and leaves. As soon as the door clicks shut, I grab the closest pillow, bite down, and let out a guttural scream, followed by taking said pillow and ripping the case into shreds.
I don't leavemy room until my stomach growls so loud Lancaster—still camped out in the front yard—can probably hear it. I intend to go straight to the kitchen, grab every granola bar in the pantry, and head back upstairs—water from my bathroom sink would suffice for the foreseeable future. What I don't anticipate are the raised voices from Dad's office.
Heart beating against my ribs, I sneak down the hallway. The door is ajar.
"Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to give you another reason to worry. You barely agreed to stay after she was found. I took every precaution I could without packing up and moving us again."
"Three years, Tristen. Three. Years." Mom is crying—and not the pretty kind. The anger in her voice is apparent. "Has anyone had access to this footage? This is a complete invasion of privacy. Did you watch it?"
"I only checked the main living areas. The cameras in the bedrooms were just a precaution."
Slap.
Holy shit, did she just smack him?
My mother's voice turns hysterically shrill. "You made it sound like Hannah's death was an accident—a burglary gone wrong. Then I find out the person came back? Now this. Did she kill Hannah?"
Again with this Hannah person. Who is this chick? And who the fuck is she?
There is a beat of silence before Dad speaks. "I think so."
"Oh, my God!"
Fuck this shit.
I push the door open, finding Mom covering her mouth with her hands, tears streaming down her face and my father's arms wrapped around her.
"Rhys!" Dad’s head snaps toward me.
"Who is Hannah?" No point in beating around the bush.
My father briefly closes his eyes in resignation, and Mom uses that opportunity to move away from him. She steps next to me. "Your father has informed me about the extent of the surveillance cameras in the house."
So, she really didn’t know.
"Who is Hannah?" I repeat myself, enunciating every word. I’m running out of patience.
"Was."
"Huh?"
"Was. Hannah is dead," Dad clarifies in his normal, detached tone. I’m looking at Colonel McGuire, not my father.
