I inhaled a deep breath and loosened my hold on the spatula.
Vic walked over and took the pan off the burner. “You good if Addie and Jaeg pick Jackson up and take him indoor rock climbing?”
Jackson overheard. “Rock climbing? Really?” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “Can I?”
I smiled. “Yeah, sure. That sounds like fun.”
“Can you and Mom come too?” Jackson asked Vic.
“Not this time, kid,” Vic replied before I had a chance to. His gaze met mine. “Need some time alone with your mom.”
My heart slammed so hard into my chest, I was afraid it was going to bust through my ribcage and take off running into my bedroom to hide under the covers. He needed time alone to talk, and I wasn’t sure if I was going to like the discussion. No, I knew I wasn’t.
Vic took the plate out of the toaster oven and put the last three pancakes from the pan on top of the pile. “Pancakes are up.”
I touched Jackson’s shoulder. “Go wash your hands, and then you can eat as many pancakes as your tummy can squish in.”
He slid off the stool and wandered into the bathroom. I heard the plastic stool scrape on the ceramic tiles as he pulled it over to the sink, then the sound of water rushing through the taps.
Vic carried the plate over to the table and set it in the center. “Is he in prison?”
I knew exactly the “he” Vic was referring to. I shook my head. “No.”
“Dead?”
I shook my head. “No.” But the truth was, I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to know.
Vic didn’t say anything for a second. “Need to do something about that.”
I frowned. “What does that mean exactly?”
He looked at me, and the calm was gone. In the dark depths was the cold hard killer. “It means whoever put his filthy hands on you will be dealt with.”
Oh. I wasn’t sure what his definition of “dealt with” meant, but I suspected he wasn’t the type of guy to do a citizen’s arrest. Not even a back alley beating.
My tongue traced the scar above my lip. “You can’t,” I whispered.
His jaw tensed and brows furrowed. “No man is walking away from that, Macayla. Not in my world.”
I glanced at the bathroom to make sure the door was still closed, then said, “You can’t because I don’t know who it is.”
Macayla’s Sixteenth Birthday
Vic
I stood with my shoulder propped up against the oak tree, watching her swing on the front porch while she wrote in a journal of some kind. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt, and I couldn’t see what was on the shirt, but I guessed there was something. Maybe a horse or a character from Star Wars.
The ropes of the swing creaked a soothing rhythm back and forth, back and forth, her toes pushing off the wooden porch every so often to keep it swinging.
Slowly, the jagged webs snapped with each inhale, and the tightness in my chest eased. Pain trickled down my skin and pooled at my feet, then soaked into the soil.
Every year felt like a thousand.
Waiting for this one day to cut open the scars and let them bleed.
Bleed the pain and let in the quietness. The warmth. The lightness.
It was always this way. I didn’t know why, and I no longer questioned it. Or denied it.