Wild Dirty Secret(105)

“Do you?”

He paused before answering softly, “I’m afraid so. It’s you, actually, but you know that.”

Yes, I knew it. I remembered the way his footsteps would pause outside the door before he came in…much like they had earlier tonight in the cell. The hesitation wasn’t his conscience—it was his pride. He didn’t want to be dependent on a little girl. “And you’ve always hated me for it.”

His gaze flicked over me. “You look more like her.”

“Is that all? Would it have turned out differently if I had looked like you instead?”

“I hated her too.” He looked faraway. “That kind of power is unnatural.”

I remembered the story my mother had told me about the princess in disguise. This was the lesson my father would take from it, that a woman held unshakable power, over her father, over the men in her life. The tale looked different to each listener, the lessons it told a testament to our deepest desires.

The most important question came to me, one I had first thought when he came into my room with a bag of her melted-down jewelry. “Why did she leave you?”

“It’s dangerous too, that kind of power. I had to stop her.”

“You killed her.” The statement left me with the cold realization I had always known, or at least suspected. It was better this way, because she hadn’t left me on purpose. But worse, so much worse. My hate for him, previously shriveled and tucked away, pulsed with new life.

He smiled, a little vacant, a little sad. “I knew you were stronger than her. She couldn’t handle what I did, the way I supported our family. I couldn’t let you go the same way.”

“The devoted father,” I scoffed.

“You can’t question my devotion to you. From the moment she left us, I made everything about you.”

“It was wrong,” I said, knowing he would mock me.

But he didn’t. His forehead creased. He seemed uncertain, as if he had pondered this before. “I kept you from ending up like her. She was so sure of herself. She wanted to leave me, to take you with her. You wouldn’t have had a chance.”

I wanted to laugh, but it caught in my throat. What chance? “Is this how you’ve justified it? The excuses you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? If you were so concerned about my safety, why did you let me prostitute myself? It’s not exactly OSHA certified.”

“I got you off the streets. Off those goddamn online ads where any pervert could call you. Henri knew what would happen to him if you ever got hurt.”

“He hurt me, Daddy. Worse than you.”

“He paid for that,” he said evenly. “He’s probably cold by now.”

I blinked, turning to look at the building we had left. The gunshot. “Did you really kill him?”

“Yes, so you can thank me for saving that cop of yours. He was more trouble than he was worth too, always poking his nose where it didn’t belong. I think he figured it out, but I’m assuming he never told you that.”

My silence answered him. He hadn’t.

“He’s not who I would have chosen for you, but I think he loves you. The way I loved your mother.”

I swallowed—no, not like that. Luke had kept his suspicions from me to spare me pain. My father caused pain and called it love. “I despise you. You can’t understand how much I hate you.”

“I can,” he whispered. “I haven’t been able to live with myself since she died. And then you left. It’s been so hard, but I kept myself from going to you. Doesn’t that count for something? Doesn’t it show I care?”

I squinted, searching, as if I were looking for someone else inside him, someone who understood the wrongness of his actions and how very crazy he had become. I found nothing.

He pulled out a gun. I watched with a kind of disinterest. Would he kill me now? It didn’t quite make sense, didn’t fit with his plans for me to take over, to become stronger, but then, he was crazy. That was the problem I’d always had, a little girl trying to find the care and affections in the actions of a madman.

The metal met the palm of my hand as he pressed it there. He maneuvered it in my hand so that it pointed at his chest.

“It’s time,” he said. “You can do this.”

I recoiled, but he held me to him. “I’m not going to kill you. That’s…that’s suicide.”

“Murder,” he corrected gently. “It needs to happen. Otherwise you’ll never move on. You’ll never find peace.”

Himself. He was talking about himself.

I jerked my hand away, my finger nestled against the trigger. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Do it.”