twist and twiddle my thumbs, a nervous tic I refuse to let them see and likely use against me. The second I hear the heavy footfalls on the other side of the door, I want to vomit. I want to turn around and forget about this whole plan. I don’t need answers. Who cares if Madison had a kid? Who cares if that kid is, in fact, Ava? Who freaking cares if I’ve unknowingly adopted that kid and love her as my own?
With my mind made up, I turn, hurriedly making my way down the stairs of the front porch. I glance helplessly at Baz in the car. I can’t make out his facial expression, but chances are, it’s a disproving one. I’m making a mistake. I know that now. I don’t need them to tell me anything. I have two of the most important people in my life sitting feet away. It doesn’t matter what my parents tell me.
I’m just clearing the last step when the front door opens, and I hear my father’s gruff voice.
“Mack?”
My heart squeezes painfully, and my chest aches. I pause with my back to him, unable to move. I feel the impending panic, the violent rise and fall of my chest, as it works to accommodate my heavy breathing. My body is trembling, my hands shaking so uncontrollably, I feel like I have tremors. I slam my eyes shut, and I inhale a deep breath, drawing in strength from the clean air out here. In those few seconds, I gather the courage to face my parents. After everything they’ve done, everything they’ve hidden from me, I’m going to go in there, hold my head high, and find out what really happened that summer.
Slowly, I turn to face my father. He looks older than when I last saw him. Seems like the guilt of putting your last living daughter in a mental facility has really fucked with him. The top of his head is balding, and the sides are now nearly all gray. His face is lacking in color, the lines much deeper than they were just months prior. He doesn’t look good. That much is obvious.
“Mark.” I nod my greeting, keeping my voice surprisingly even.
If I wasn’t paying close attention, and if I didn’t know my father the way I do, I would’ve missed the flinch. There’s no bigger shame to a parent than being stripped of the title “Dad” or “Mom.” And I’ve stripped Mark and Monica of both.
I clear my throat, squaring my shoulders. “Is Monica here? I wanted to talk to you guys.”
He rubs at the back of his neck, a pained look in his eyes, as he stares down at me. “Yes, she’s here. Come in.” He opens the door wider, inviting me inside, and then glances toward the car. His brows dip, likely noticing the bodies sitting inside, but he doesn’t comment on it.
Inside, I’m hit with the smell first. It’s the smell of my childhood. The smell of my mother and her Yankee candles and the wood floor cleaner she often uses, but there’s a new scent. It reeks of sadness. Not the kind of sadness we grew up with. This one is different. It’s lonelier. I follow my dad into the kitchen and try not to let my gaze wander. This isn’t a fun walk down memory lane. This is for business. This is to get answers.
I hate that when we walk into the kitchen, I stumble at the sight of my mother. She’s sitting at the table, looking worse for wear. If I thought my father looked bad, Monica has him beat. My dad clears his throat, grabbing her attention, and when her gaze lands on me, her eyes widen. The color drains from her face, and she suddenly pushes away from the table, rounding it so quickly, I don’t have time to process what she does next.
She tosses her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. My entire body locks up, tensing at the intrusion of my personal space. She must notice my lack of reciprocation because she slowly lets go and takes a wary step back. There’s guilt written all over her face. It’s there in the thin sheen of tears glimmering in her eyes.
She sniffles, glancing at her husband. “I had no idea you were coming here. I didn’t even know you were in—”
I laugh darkly. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.”
She snaps her mouth shut and jerks back as though I’ve