thirty-seven

Bert’s not home, thankfully. That’s not surprising, though—he rarely comes home Saturday nights. I head into my room and doze fitfully for a while. Then I’m up, lying in bed, working on my case notes, trying to unravel everything I’ve learned. It’s past noon when Jude texts.

On my way. Talk?

I reply that I’m going to shower and change, and I’ll meet him in the forest behind the trailer. I give directions, but ask him to please stay out of sight. I finish my notes and then I’m heading for the bathroom, when the trailer door opens.

“Winter.”

Bert stands in the doorway.

I try not to tense, and say, “Hey. I’m just going to shower and head out.”

“Eli Slate stopped me this morning. He says you found Owen McCall’s body.” Bert advances on me, and I sidestep as he says, “Eli told me there was a boy. But there is no boy, right, Winter? You swore there was no boy.”

Jude’s right. Lies do escalate. Time to stop this one.

“Yes,” I say. “There’s a boy—”

He slaps my face. I reel back, head thumping into the wall.

“I was trying to explain,” I say.

“I asked if there was a boy and you said no.”

“Because it’s not like that. There’s a boy I’ve been talking to. He’s trying to find his brother, and it may have something to do with Edie Greene, who’s missing, and I thought it might even have something to do with Cady.”

His eyes narrow. “So this boy tells you something happened to your sister—”

“No, I just…I’m worried. I’ve been worried for a long time. That’s why I asked about her yesterday. I thought if his brother and Edie disappeared, then there could be others.”

“Like what? Owen McCall ran over more kids?”

“Of course not. Marty’s death isn’t connected. We just found that out while we were digging.”

“Digging for what? A serial killer? I’ve seen those shows you watched with Cady, Winter. The books you read. Filling your head with garbage when you’re supposed to be studying. Now this boy tells you there’s a killer in Reeve’s End, and you fall for it?”

“I didn’t say—”

“You fall for the lies of some city brat who’s only looking for some fun? That’s what you are to this boy, Winter. A bit of fun. A chance to make up wild stories he can share with his buddies at college. A chance to get lucky with a hick girl too dumb to make him wear a rubber.”

“I’m not—”

“Do you want to end up like your sister? Throwing her life away because some pothead says he loves her? Turning her back on her little sister because she tried to help?”

I blink. He’s never acknowledged that I was trying to help Cadence.

“You are going to get out of this town, Winter. You’re going to college, and you’re not letting anything stop you. Not some loser local kid. Not some jackass college brat.”

“It isn’t like that. Jude and I aren’t—”

“But that’s what he wants. What he expects. And you’ll convince yourself he loves you and you’ll end up like your mother, married to the loser who got her knocked up at seventeen.”

My mouth opens. It stays open as I stare at him. Then I say, “Mom…?”

“How else do you think she ended up with me?”

“But…you…you had an engineering job. I remember—”

“I hauled garbage. So-called sanitation engineer. That’s what your mother got. Her big prize in life. She was headed into college. Going to be a lawyer. Smartest girl in her class. Then she fell for me, the dropout who told her a thousand lies. She got pregnant. Her parents kicked her out. The loser boyfriend steps up, marries her, gonna do right by her and their kid.” He waves around the trailer. “See how right he does?”

I stare at him. I don’t know what he expects me to do, how he expects me to react.

“I told her I’d take care of you,” he says. “I promised her that.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He comes at me. I dodge, but his hand catches my shoulder, shoving me back into the wall. When I try to get away, he grabs my arm and I yank and he releases me so fast that I skid, falling to one knee. I stay there, breathing hard, not daring to rise, not daring to look up, just measuring the distance between me and the door.

“She had no right to ask,” he says. “I screwed up her life. I dragged her down with me. And then she expects me to take care of you girls? I could barely take care of myself. She looked after me. She kept me straight. She kept me clean.”

Don’t respond. Just don’t respond.

I can’t do it. I look up at him. “Then you should have told her that.”

He lunges and I cringe, but he just feints my way, his face twisted in rage. “You don’t think I did? I wanted to call her parents. They had money. They’d tried to get in touch for years, to see you girls, but she wouldn’t let them. When she got sick, I wanted her to contact them. To at least let me contact them. Let them take you girls. She begged me not to. Begged me. What was I supposed to do? I made her that promise. What could I do?”

“Keep it,” I say, and my voice is so cold that he doesn’t lunge at me this time. He just stands there, teetering. Then he runs his hands over his face and through his hair, and when he lowers them, his expression is as cold as mine. “You don’t think I tried? I screwed up. Again and again. Everything we’d saved went to trying to save her. She was the one who looked after the money, kept the bills paid. I never knew how. I told myself that was fine, I’d get us on our feet again. Only I couldn’t. It just got worse and worse until we ended up in this shit hole, and do you know the only good thing about that, Winter?”

“What?”

“That you’re never going to stay here. You aren’t like your sister. You won’t get comfortable and settle in. I made a mistake with her. I was too soft. I won’t make that mistake with you. The minute you graduate, you’re going to run as far as you can and you’re never going to look back.”

Silence falls. I stare at him. Then I take a slow step forward. “Is that your excuse?”

“It’s not a—”

“You tell yourself this is for my own good? Hitting me is for my own good?” I stop in front of him. “You fell into that damned bottle and you gave up being a father and you hate your damned life and you hit me because it makes you feel better. What would Mom say if she saw that? You think she’d be proud of how you motivate your daughter?”

He slaps me. Slaps me so hard I stagger, and when he goes to grab me, I lash out, knocking him off me. He grabs my wrists, and I hurl myself away from him, and he lets go and I fly into his stack of bourbon bottles by the door, and they crash around me as I fall.

He comes at me, and I don’t see his face. I just lift my hands to ward him off and the door flies open, Jude charging in. He sees me and puts his hands out, saying, “Don’t move. There’s glass everywhere. Stay where you are.”

“Get away from her,” Bert says.

Jude turns to him, in that slow way that makes me tense.

“I was going to say the same to you, sir,” Jude says, his voice unnaturally calm. “Step away, please.”

“I’m her father.”

Jude looks from Bert to me, his gaze traveling from the broken bottles to my nose, dripping blood. He turns to Bert.

“Then maybe you should act like it,” he says.

Bert charges. I say, “No!” and start to scramble up, but Jude only grabs Bert’s arm and wrenches him around. Then he says, “Don’t move, Winter. It’s okay.”

“Let me—” Bert says.

Jude flips him into a headlock before I can do more than inhale. Then he says, “I’m holding you until you agree to back off, sir. We are not going to fight, because your daughter is sitting in a pile of broken glass and if we fight, she will try to stop us, and she’ll get hurt a lot worse.”

Bert gives an experimental twist.

“Don’t,” Jude says. “If you give a shit about your daughter, you’ll back away and let me clean up the glass.”

“Don’t you give me orders in my—”

“It’s not an order. It’s a plan to protect Winter from further harm. You might be okay with smacking her around, but I don’t think you want her bleeding out. If you’d like to help me clear the glass, do that.”

Bert grunts something. Jude takes it as agreement and carefully releases him. I brace, ready for Bert to swing or shove Jude, but once he’s free, he stands stiffly, marches into the bathroom, and shuts the door.

Jude comes over and crouches in front of me. When I reach for a piece of glass, he says, “Uh-uh,” and catches my sleeve, and I see that my hands are trembling. I remember when I brought Lennon, how ashamed I’d been. That was nothing compared to this. I feel as if I’m crouching here naked, completely exposed, and I want to sink into the floor.

When Jude’s fingers touch my chin, I jump, and he steadies me and I see a tissue in his hand. He wipes the blood from my nose and murmurs, “Does that hurt?”

I shake my head. “It’s not broken.”

His lips compress, as if realizing this means I know what a broken nose feels like. And I want to say it was just once, but that sounds like I’m making excuses for my father.

“Hold it and tip your head back,” he says.

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” I say. “The proper way to deal with a bloody nose is to pinch the nose and lean forward.”

“Ah, right. Forgot who I’m speaking to.” He gives a faint smile and then starts clearing away the glass.

After a moment, he says, “I’m sorry for interfering. I heard a thud and raised voices, and I worried it was your stalker.”

“Thank you for not doing anything to him.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to,” he says, his gaze on the glass as he moves it aside. “But that wouldn’t help you.”

And that, I realize, is the difference between Jude and Bert. Jude has a violent temper. He acknowledges it. He’s learned to control it. It’s a tool he can use, only when absolutely required.

He’s still clearing glass when Bert comes from the bathroom. He has a box of bandages in one hand and a wet towel in the other. He hands me the towel and says, “I didn’t push you into those bottles, Winter.”

I say nothing.

“I slapped you. I got mad, and I slapped you. But then I was trying to catch you, to say I was sorry. You panicked, so I let you go, and you fell onto the bottles.”

Jude looks up at him. “Does it matter?”

Bert scowls. “I wasn’t talking to you, boy. I’m letting you clean up that glass because I don’t want Winter getting cut. Then you’re leaving. Walking through that door. Never seeing my daughter again.”

“I believe that’s up to her, sir.”

Jude speaks in his usual calm tone, and Bert snaps, “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.”

Jude rises. “I will if you act like it.”

I tense, ready to intervene, but Jude only says, “Is there a dustpan? So I can sweep up the glass?”

“I’ve got it,” I say. The pieces are cleared away enough for me to get to my feet, and I’m steady enough to step over the rest. I clench my hands as I head for the kitchen, so Bert and Jude won’t see how badly they’re shaking.

Keep it calm. Like Jude. Calm and collected.

I get three steps before Bert advances and I stumble, Jude catching me.

“I wasn’t—” Bert begins. Then he turns to Jude. “Get out of my house.”

“Let’s go,” I murmur.

“Don’t you dare, Winter,” Bert says.

I swallow, hoping it smoothes my voice. “I’m helping Jude look for his brother, as I explained. His brother and Edie Greene. That is all we’re doing.”

“I said no.”

For years there’s been one principle I’ve lived by in this trailer—never turn my back on my father. And now I do.

At a snarl from Bert, I wheel to face him, but he’s stalking in the other direction. Jude grabs the door and ushers me out.