Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Should we play?”
“Play?” I repeat, taking yet another step away from him. For the first time, I think I should be scared of him.
I wanted this, didn’t I?
I mean, I did stupid things to see him. I stole someone’s identity to find out more about him. And the whole time, he was watching me.
Who have I become?
And why is he smirking?
“Caterpillar, are you finally afraid?” His smirk morphs into something more. Then, the next words that fall from his lips snap me back to reality. “You should be.”
I turn and bolt straight to my car. I fumble with the handle, and when I finally slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, I glance up to find him in the exact same position I left him. Taking a deep breath, I reverse out of the parking spot and gun it out of the lot.
And then I wonder, if I had gone with him, would I have disappeared?
The next day, I’m sitting in a hotel, far away from the city and from him.
Perhaps I should have sought out a therapist instead of fixating on a man who is more fucked-up than I am.
My foot taps as I wait for time to move faster. I need to see my father. It’s been more than a few years. I haven’t even written to him. To be honest, I stopped contacting him altogether. Even early on in my marriage, it was limited. And there is a reason for that. I’m more like him than I thought. And I hate that I’m like him at all.
He went to prison when I was fourteen, and from then on, his sister raised me. My mother died when I was little, and I don’t remember too much about her. Deven asked that I never mention my family to anyone. He hated who my father was. Anytime we were asked about my family, Deven would always say, “Her mother died when she was young.” He wasn’t lying, but what he left off was that my father was still alive.
As soon as the clock shows that visiting hours have started, I grab my purse and leave. The prison is about an hour’s drive away, and I wonder if he will even see me or if this trip will be a wasted effort. Is he mad that I haven’t bothered until now?
When I finally arrive, I go through all the necessary checks and then walk through security. I find my father right away when I enter the visitation room—he’s there waiting for me, his foot tapping as I step closer. When his eyes lift to meet mine, I see myself staring back at me. I have one picture of my mother—my father always told me I had her hair. So, I dyed it every chance I had.
He stands, towering over me. His right hand lifts to touch me, but the chains won’t let him go farther, so I slide into a chair across from him instead. He follows my lead, sitting back down, his cuffed hands coming up to rest on the table.
“It’s been too long, Lilith,” he says.
“Has it?”
I never really spoke to him much about what he did. I was merely a teenager, and I had to move right after he was convicted of murder. In the process, I also hated him for that. I lost friends, had to change schools, and so much more because of who he was—no, is.
“It has. You’ve been quiet, and I see you aren’t wearing a ring any longer.” His gaze drops to my hand. His salt-and-pepper hair makes him look old. The last time I saw him, he had mocha-colored hair and looked more… vibrant. Now, he appears worn down and a little lonely.
“No, I guess I’m not.” I take a deep breath, then say, “I divorced him.”
“Good. That man was too beige for you anyway.”
“Maybe that’s what I needed,” I tell him. “I was raised in chaos, Father, or did you forget that?”
“Your Aunt gave you a good life.”
“She spent all your money on alcohol, and by the time I was eighteen, I had nothing.”
“She’s my sister. I thought I could trust her,” he says, defending her.
“Aunt Linda wasn’t bad to me. She was just a drunk,” I remind him, and he nods.
“I know. It’s why I placed you in her custody.”
“I want to talk about it.”
