Mel. Oh, how I hate my name on her lips. It’s Mom, I want to scream most days.
Jaime grabs her cheeks and draws her in to kiss her forehead. “I think she loves you too much to deny you anything, including breaking her heart.”
My fingers tremble around the steering wheel as I zip toward Gabe Prichard’s house.
Fifteen years ago, after things calmed down and Jaime and I came back to Todos Santos, I decided to volunteer at All Saints High. Form a connection with the other teachers and clean up my reputation for my kids’ sake. I figured if I wanted to stay in this town, I needed to prove that I’m not some deranged cradle snatcher.
Connections. It only took one phone call for me to find out where the bastard lives.
I’m not in the right headspace for confrontation, but I have no doubt I’ll be pulling it off because it’s not about me. It’s about my daughter. Neither Jaime nor the kids know where I went. I ordered a pizza and stormed out the door without explanation, leaving a trail of freshly done laundry in my wake. Daria was upstairs, oblivious to her mother’s meltdown a few feet away. I’m glad she didn’t witness me at my worst when I found out what he did to her. The last thing I want is for her to feel ashamed or humiliated about what he did to her.
I cut the engine in front of a Tudor-styled house on the outskirts of Todos Santos and pop my knuckles, inhaling a ragged breath.
Do not kill the bastard. Your kids still need you, and you’ll be of very little help to them if you’re in jail.
Easier said than done. When I slam the driver’s door and dart toward his front entrance, not one bone in my body can resist going apeshit on his garden, and house, and face.
You touched my fucking daughter.
I forgot to add—even though I tell the kids to keep it clean, I curse in my head—a lot.
For the sake of appropriateness, and for my plan to succeed, I fix my ballet-teacher smile on my face before I knock on his red door. My relationship with my daughter may be beyond repair, but no one can hurt her like this and get away with it, regardless of the fact she may not fully accept me ever again.
He opens the door dressed in pale gray cigar pants, a crisp white shirt, and a frown that collapses into a wince the minute he sees my face. Was he expecting my daughter? I can’t ask even though I want to.
“Mrs. Followhill. This is quite unexpected.”
“Is it, though, Gabe?” I tilt my head, wearing a smile I’m pretty sure is downright nuts. “Let’s think about it for a second. Is my visit really a surprise?”
He does the whole charade. The scowl. The blinks. The grave shake of his head.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.” His voice is calm, but his left eye is twitching. I’m already under his skin, and I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.
“I’m referring to the fact that today, I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out what the sticky, persistent stain on my daughter’s pajamas was before realizing that it was aloe. Aloe she put on her butt to ease the pain of you ruthlessly beating her with a ruler.”
I deliver the news flatly, knowing if I let my emotions slip, I’ll mess it up. I can’t mess it up. Not when Daria is involved. I’m done letting her down.
“That’s quite the accusation, Mrs. Followhill, and I must say, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but the blood has drained from his face, and he is clutching the edge of his door as though his life depends on it. I take a step toward him, tilting my chin up so we look each other in the eye.
“Should I refresh your memory? Because I have full access to my daughter’s phone, contacts, and text messages, and I believe one of us has been very reckless while messaging my Daria.”
This is both a blunt lie and an educated guess. While I would never entertain the idea of breaching Daria’s privacy this way, I still remember my own affair with her father. The lust. The wildness of the situation. The feral need to keep in touch after school hours. He is probably saved under an alias, and maybe he calls her from a separate phone, but there is no way they don’t have a connection outside of school.
He shifts from foot to foot, moving his hand over his face when he realizes I might have hard evidence against him.
“Mrs. Followhill, please do not patronize me in that department. You were in my position. These kids,” he says, referring to my husband as a kid, “are of legal age, with raging hormones and wicked plans. You, of all people, know lines get blurred.”