“I just—she screwed up, Syl. They both have. But that doesn’t mean you will.”
I lick my lips, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk about this, and I’m regretting even telling him in my message that I’d left Jackson and Ronnie.
“I know we’ve grown up saying that we’re not going to have kids because it’s just a goddamn vicious cycle, but it doesn’t have to be. You can stop it.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I say.
“You know what I mean.”
I do, but I don’t want to talk about it. “Listen, I need to get dressed.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly.
“No,” he says firmly, “it’s not. Listen, I’ve been thinking. And the thing is that you love him.”
“Ethan, please.” My voice is cracking with my words.
“Dammit, Syl, hear me out. You think you can’t be a mom. You think you don’t have a role model. But you do. Don’t you get it? You’re your role model.”
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling too ripped up inside to try and figure out what he’s talking about. “Ethan—”
“You are. I mean, if parenting is about taking care of someone—about being willing to sacrifice for them and make really hard choices—well, then you already know how to do that. Don’t you get it, Syl? You did that for me already.”
I suck in a breath, his words surprising me and making tears spring to my eyes.
“You were as much a parent to me growing up as they ever were. Maybe more. I’m sorry if I’ve made it harder for you. Made you doubt. I shouldn’t have. Because you can do it, Syl. I promise you—you already know how.”
“I—” I can’t talk through the tears. I sniff and try to breathe, and then manage to tell him that I have to go. Because I can’t handle what he’s saying right now. I can’t process if it’s true or not, because it’s just too much. Too big. “I’m sorry,” I add. “But I have a scheduled time to meet with him.”
I hang up without waiting for him to say goodbye.
Could he be right? I want to believe it, but I’m still scared. And with a little girl’s life at the heart of it, I can’t run the risk of being wrong.
Two hours later, I’m sitting in the private visitors’ room at the county jail where my dad is being held. It’s stark and cold and as much as I hate my dad for what he did to me, I can’t stand the thought of him living in a room like this for the rest of his life.
The door opens and my father is brought in, his hands in cuffs, his body dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
I rise and start to go to him.
“No touching,” the uniformed guard says, and I realize that I’d been about to hug my father, something I haven’t done since I was thirteen years old.
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “I can’t hear you, but if you need anything you signal me.”
I nod, and then I take a seat at the table as my father sits opposite. The officer unfastens one handcuff, then refastens it to a bolt on the table. Then he turns, leaves the room, and shuts it with a final-sounding click behind him.
“You killed Reed,” I say without preamble, and I realize as I say the words that it is the first time since I was a child that I’ve felt the protection of this man. “You really did it.”
He looks straight at me, and I see genuine warmth. “I should have done it a long time ago.”
I look down at the tabletop, not wanting him to see how much I agree. When I’ve gathered myself, I lift my head, and I know my eyes are accusatory. “You let Jackson just twist in the wind. All that time. He was almost arrested. Hell, he was almost convicted.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought—oh, hell. I was scared. I thought it would blow over. I thought they’d quit looking at him because, hell, he didn’t kill the man. And when it got bad, I was afraid of what would happen to me, and I just kept hoping it would go away.”
I cringe a bit. I don’t like what he did, but I understand it.
“Did you go there planning to kill him?”
“No. I went there to ask him about those blackmail photos. The ones of you that Jackson told me about. Bastard sneered at me. He even pulled one out to show me.” He lifts a shoulder. “That’s when I lost it. I picked up that damn statue, and I went after him.”
“Did you tell your attorney?” I ask. “About seeing the photo? Because what we heard after you confessed was that you were basically killing him to make things easier on Jackson. But if he provoked you, then surely that will come into play when you’re negotiating the plea.”