out an angry breath and got to his feet. “Where did you get all that?”
There was an edge of contempt in his voice, and I felt my face heat up. This was our only option, and he knew it.
“Where do you think?”
“You—at the shopping mall?” Dad’s eyes burned.
“Is there some other kind of mall I should know about?”
“That was a stupid risk,” he spat. “You could’ve been caught.”
“Somebody had to do something.”
“Not this way.”
“What way, then?” I said, my voice rising. “I booked a fifteen-thousand-dollar show—fifteen thousand dollars!—but you won’t do it. What way, then?” My chest rose and fell, my breath shallow and furious. I grabbed a fistful of cash and hurled it at him. The bills fanned out like dead leaves, dropping pointlessly to the bedspread. Dad watched them fall, and his face fell with them.
“I . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, just closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He seemed to shrink as I watched, shoulders sagging, hand on the desk to steady himself.
Guilt dissolved my anger like acid. I had done this to him, reduced him to a powerless old man. After all, I had led us here, not him. I was the one who had wasted time going on dates, and squandered our money on cell minutes instead of food. I had crashed the RV and destroyed our livelihood.
This was my fault. All of it.
I sank onto the bed. For lack of something meaningful to do, I gathered the bills into a stack and put them back in my bag. I retrieved the drivers’ licenses and began to write the date and the amounts on each. I wanted to apologize to Dad, to tell him I knew this was all on me, but I couldn’t seem to make my voice work.
Dad moved, and at first, I thought he was headed for the door. Instead, he sat down at the desk and opened his journal.
“Did you know the Truck Drop was your mother’s idea?”
I sat up. Dad never brought up the Truck Drop on his own—and I could count on my fingers the number of times he had mentioned my mother. I was the one who carried her memory; he seemed capable only of enduring it.
“No,” I said.
He nodded. “We found the truck at an estate sale in Las Vegas. She fell in love at first sight. She said it reminded her of her father’s truck, and of how he used to take her for midnight rides to the beach.”
I stared. “She used to take me on drives, too. To the desert instead of the beach, but . . .”
Dad cocked his head. “I never knew.”
“You remember how sometimes she couldn’t sleep?”
Recognition passed over his face like a shadow. “I remember.”
I pressed my lips together. I wanted to say more, to ask a thousand questions about my mother, but I didn’t want to rekindle his anger.
He ran a hand across the scuffed cover of his journal. “She designed the whole illusion. The narrative, the mechanics.” He swallowed. “When I failed on that show . . .” His voice faded to a whisper. “I think she blamed herself. I think that’s why she . . .”
Dad had never talked about her death. Never. My heart felt pinched. Slowly, I moved toward him and sat down on the edge of the bed. I was still afraid of making him angry—but my longing to know more about my mother was stronger than my fear.
“Tell me about her. Please.”
He let out a long breath and turned his face toward the window. “She was funny,” he said. “Talented, beautiful. Tempestuous.” Now his eyes met mine, and I understood at once that this last part was about me, too. “She came to Las Vegas to get away from her family. She prized her freedom over everything else. You couldn’t tell Cora Prince what to do. And if you tried, she’d do the opposite just to spite you.” He smiled, shook his head; and the smile faded. “Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t . . . I wonder if she might still be here.” He looked at me, his eyes wide and wet and seeming to beg my forgiveness.
“It doesn’t work like that, Dad.”
He tilted his head as if he wanted desperately to believe me. The weight of his gaze compressed my rib cage.
“Anything can trigger it,” I said. “Anything and nothing. And when it’s bad . . .” I shook my head. “It’s a sickness, Dad,