My dad asks when I come through the front door. I know this is just the beginning of a full line of questioning that’s sure to follow.
“How do you think it was?”
“Sorry, I didn’t really know how to come right out and ask about—”
“Mr. Whitman?” I interrupt.
He sighs. “Yeah.”
“What’s there really to say?”
“For starters, how about what you’re feeling?” he responds, seeming frustrated. “I know you were close to him. I just want to make sure you’re okay, is that all right?”
“I feel angry, scared, pissed off at the world. How do you think I feel? My world seems to be crashing down around me, and my own father won’t believe me when I say there’s someone after me. Let me ask you a question, Dad. How would you feel if you were in my position?”
The look on his face changes from one of worry and concern to irritation. Typical parent move once your child calls you out.
“I want to believe you, Dani. Trust me, I do. But it seems like you’re making something out of nothing. I know you’ve seen things that would put anyone under a lot of stress. Your story just doesn’t make any sense, and you have nothing to back up these claims. There’s a protocol I have to follow here,” he explains, but every word keeps throwing more oil on an already roaring bonfire.
“Seriously, spare me your technical jargon. You’re talking to your own daughter, not some perp or victim out on the street.” I pause for a second to gain my composure. “I don’t want to become a statistic like Gunnar and Mr. Whitman. I need you to believe me before I end up being just another one of your cases,” I say, tears forming in my eyes.
“You won’t become one of my cases. Why do you think you will?”
He’s clearly not getting what I’m trying to say. Story of my life, it seems lately. No wonder Mom left him. That thought resonates deep within me and I feel terrible for even thinking it, even if it might be true.
“Never mind, Dad. I’m just speaking out of my ass, right? It’s just a phase I’m going through. It’ll pass.”
I stomp up the stairs. My dad says nothing. No rebuttal, no reply, no arguing…nothing. There’s only silence as I reach the top of the stairs and make a beeline to my room. Slamming the door behind me, I fall onto the bed and let the tears flow. I’ve been harboring a lot of emotions and I feel like every single one of them is pouring out. The pillow I’m cuddling with is becoming soaked with tears, but I don’t care. I’ll keep crying until I’m tapped out.
A light rap at my door pulls my attention to it.
“I’m sorry, Dani.” My dad’s muffled voice comes from the other side. “I’m terrible at handling stuff like this. This was always your mom’s department, but I’m trying my best here. I’m just so used to dealing with criminals and the facts. I guess I forget to turn off my sheriff brain. I don’t think you’re going through a phase, I just think you’re overstressed.”
I was with him up until he used the word “overstressed.” Wanting to just put an end to the convo, I reply, “It’s okay, Dad. You’re right, I just need to relax and take my mind off what’s been going on. I’ll be better in a day or so.”
He releases a heavy sigh. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, all right? I’ll be downstairs if you want to talk some more,” he says, and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“I think I’m going to call it a night, if that’s okay,” I reply, trying to keep my tears at bay until he leaves.
I hear his hand graze the door before he says good night. I murmur “good night” when I hear him making his way down the stairs.
My phone chimes in my pocket and I pull it out to see a message from Parker:
Made it home safe. Hope u did 2. Tonight felt good, despite the circumstances. Try 2 get some sleep, k?
Seeing his text reminds me I still haven’t gotten a message from Unknown taking credit for what happened to Mr. Whitman. Maybe my father is right. Maybe it was an accident.
I spend most of my entire Saturday in bed. I figure that if I never leave the house, or my bedroom for that matter, then nothing