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Maribeth. She’d meant…Maribeth.
Those photo albums would be full of Maribeth. His kid’s entire life was contained in those cheap-ass photo albums. Sol was off the clock for a day or so now. He was going to tie one on tonight. Forget.
At least for a little while.
He didn’t want to think about all the photo albums that would never be filled completely now.
What Maribeth wouldn’t have.
Sol would never walk her down the aisle.
Sol would never hold his grandchildren. Not even once.
He’d never have grandchildren, to begin with.
Maribeth’s life was over. Gone. Dead. Maribeth was dead. His baby.
Opal Joy had ripped his eighteen-year-old baby from this world. And it was all his own fucking fault.
The beer only numbed the pain so much. Her death would burn his soul until he met his eternal reward—damnation, rather—someday. He had no one but himself to blame.
He’d driven boxes of that damned OPJ into Finley Creek County himself.
Maybe even the very pill that had been too much for his baby girl’s small body to handle that night.
He’d killed his girl. He’d killed her. He had. Him.
Sol grabbed the first photo album. Teal blue. Thick. Cheap pleather cover. He opened it. And just looked at her.
Too pretty to be his kid. He’d always thought that.
Her hair was the same brown she’d gotten from him. Just plain old mud brown on him, but on her, it had been so beautiful. Her eyes, the warm dark brown of her mother’s. Pale cheeks—that kid had always sunburned so badly.
She’d had the cutest freckles of any kid he’d ever seen. Right over that pug nose.
Her grin. She had always had a mischievous grin, that girl. When she would laugh, the world would shine. The whole entire world lost some of the darkness when Maribeth laughed like that.
This album covered when she was thirteen or fourteen, he thought. Right after the divorce. Sol was in half the photos, at the beginning. His ex had always been orderly. Photos were put in chronological order. By the middle of the album, Sol was gone. Mostly.
He had had visitation. On weekends. He had made sure to stick to it, so Maribeth knew he’d wanted her. He’d tried to do stuff with her. Help her know that he loved her.
He had loved her.
From the moment he’d first held his baby, he had loved her. He just hadn’t realized how much until his ex had moved out and taken Maribeth away. Then he’d tried to build the relationship with his daughter he should have had with her before. From the beginning.
If he had been more engaged in her life early on, instead of taking time away from her and giving it to the damned TSP, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten involved with those punks down on Boethe Street. Maybe she wouldn’t have let that boy convince her to do OPJ just for the thrill of it.
She wouldn’t have been down on Boethe Street in the first damned place.
And maybe if he hadn’t transported the damned shit into Finley Creek in the first place, his baby girl wouldn’t have had access to it.
He’d failed his little girl.
She’d still be alive if it hadn’t been for him.
And his quest for money.
He turned the page. More photos were there. Photos with him in them this time.
