Page 56 of Watch Me Burn
“So, you two know Lisa?” he asked, straight to the point.
“From high school,” Ethan said.
Mr. Coffman seemed to tense up a bit. “And you are . . . ?”
I took in a deep breath. If he knew about the abuse and killed my dad, he might not like me very much.
“Anna Hudson and Ethan Wayne. I’m . . . the daughter of John Hudson, the teacher who was murdered during Lisa’s senior year and was also the coach of her basketball team.”
Scrunching his face, Lisa’s father jerked forward in his chair. “Well, if you’re here to ask me about her whereabouts, I have no idea where she is.”
Ethan and I exchanged quick glances.
Thank god he took the lead by stepping forward.
“We know that your daughter was going through a lot in her senior year, especially with John Hudson.”
Mr. Coffman frowned. “What do you mean that she was going through a lot with John Hudson? Lisa has inherited her mother’s talent for drama, but she had excellent grades, so I struggle to believe any sensible teacher would take issue with her.”
Ethan glanced nervously in my direction. Some rich people could be amazingly great manipulators, so it was possible the posh man simply didn’t want to admit to any knowledge of the case. Maybe his response to my dad’s actions was what drove Lisa all the way to the fringes of Massachusetts. But I wasn’t quite ready to quit so easily.
“My father—” I stopped, tasting bile on my tongue. Fuck . . . I took in a deep breath. “My father . . . wasn’t quite the man people thought he was. He . . . was a sexual predator.”
Mr. Coffman met my eyes. His brow furrowed in thought for a brief moment, but instead of the reaction I expected, something close to a heart attack, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He leaned back in his chair, dismissively waving a hand. “This sounds like more of my daughter’s dramatic tales,” he scoffed. “After all, she’s her mother’s daughter, gifted with quite the flair for theatrics and manipulation. Her mother, as stunningly beautiful as she was, came from a trailer park with plenty of baggage. Lisa was never a wished-for child. She was merely a ploy by her mother to secure some financial hold over me. Which failed when Lily overdosed shortly after Lisa’s graduation. I offered Lisa a check for a few hundred dollars at her mother’s funeral, to help her get out of the foster-care system, but she tore it up in front of me, and I haven’t had a line of contact with my daughter since.”
No. This man didn’t kill my dad out of love and pain. This man was almost as bad as him. Another piece-of-shit, entitled male asshole.
I pressed my eyes closed to hide my rage. How could someone be so out of touch?
“So . . . you haven’t talked to your own daughter—who has lost her mother to addiction—in years?” Ethan’s voice wavered with barely contained anger.
“She is her mother’s daughter. Some day, she will come begging for money. Poor women always do. No dignity or pride to work for their own money. That’s all I have for you. So I’m afraid whatever you came here for, it was a waste of time.” He rubbed his temples as if he were in a great state of annoyance.
The urge to slap this man was overwhelming. I wanted to shout about the years his daughter endured abuse under his negligent watch. But it wasn’t my place. If Lisa chose to keep him in the dark about her life, I had to respect her decision.
“Well, in that case,” I said, my voice dripping with icy disdain, “fuck you, you arrogant prick.”
Ethan’s smirked, impressed by my audacity. Then, out of nowhere, with a swift motion, he punched Mr. Coffman in the face, sending the man tumbling out of his lavish chair and onto the floor. “That was for Lisa and her mom, asshole,” he spat. “You should’ve been their protector, not another weight pressing down on them.” He leaned in closer, his voice menacing. “I’ll be in touch.”
“And if you even think about calling the cops, I’ll whip up a wild tale that’ll put your face on every damn news headline. I’ve got nothing to lose. But you? You seem pretty fond of that lofty perch of yours. Good luck holding onto it, prick.”
When Ethan and I left the property, my mind was swirling, more clouded with questions than illuminated with answers. Driving toward the city center, a painful tightness gripped my chest, and I struggled to draw breath. It felt like the onset of a heart attack, but deep down, I recognized it: crippling anxiety. An old ghost from the years following my dad’s death was rearing its ugly head again. Swerving into an empty church parking lot, I pressed my face into my hands.
“Fuck.”
Tears threatened to spill. Ethan turned toward me, his hand reaching out to rest on my tense shoulder.
“Anna . . .”
I looked up, my eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How do I move forward, Ethan? How can I live knowing what my father did to those young girls and that the man I’ve loved for as long as I can remember suffered in prison because of that monster? How does one keep going when the pain becomes an anchor, pulling you under until you feel like you can’t breathe?”
Ethan offered a soft smile, brushing a strand of brown hair from my face.
“You’re an incredible person, Anna. Good people might stumble and err, but they learn and grow. The assholes? They knowingly repeat those mistakes. And you, Anna? You’re among the bravest souls I’ve met. Sitting face-to-face with one of your father’s victims, with nothing but love and compassion in your heart. Advocating for justice for me and for every girl he wronged, regardless of the personal cost to you . . .”
“But I don’t feel brave,” I whispered, tears streaking my flushed cheeks. “I feel like disappearing, finding some remote mountaintop to hide away. How did you endure such grave injustice? How did you find the strength to keep moving forward, Ethan? How?”
Ethan leaned in, capturing my lips with his. The intensity of the moment pulled me in, our shared pain and longing evident in the depth of our kiss. I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, wanting nothing more than to lose myself in him.
