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It was such a strong word. Often overused and tossed about without thought.
I hate tuna fish. I hate the rain. I hate my sorry car.
I hate JoJo.
With all the bickering and hostility, I’d never once had that thought.
Now, Ifeltit.
The hate was a living, breathing thing.
I wanted answers, though I wasn’t sure I could tolerate being in the same room with her.
Somehow, she looked more devastated than I felt. And that made me hate her more.
How dare she look as if she were the one torn apart?
As if she were the one who had a daughter ripped from her life?
As if she’d been lied to?
“Start talking.”
She stood in the doorway, yet had the audacity to look me in the eye.
“Fair warning. There is nothing you can say to make me ever forgive you for this.” I picked up my empty whiskey glass and tossed it back anyway. “Although you arefullof surprises, so maybe I shouldn’t speak so hastily.”
“I’m going to make some tea.”
She took two steps toward the kitchen.
“Sit down,” I barked. “Start. Talking.”
She lifted her chin. “I need tea.”
“And I needed to know I had a daughter,” I roared.
She recoiled, and somehow that only escalated my temper. Hate and rage swirled into one vicious beast. I hurled the tumbler into the fireplace.
It shattered, but I wasn’t satisfied. I searched wildly for something else to throw.
I picked up the whiskey bottle and reared back. JoJo grabbed it from my hand.
I whirled around. She launched it at the fireplace. The glass crashed against the brick. Flames roared with an angry burst before they settled.
JoJo’s chest heaved.
How dare she steal the chance to destroy something from me?
She grabbed my hand. At the contact the beast inside me roared like the fire had when the whiskey hit the flames. Then it settled back to a boil.
I followed her to the kitchen. Stood by her as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove.
She pulled two mugs down and a box of tea.
And then she faced me. Anger that rivaled my own etched her face.
“If you cost me my daughter—”
