I could tolerate some insults about me—I’d had so many thrown at me by nasty kids at school—but if he thought I’d let him get away with insulting my dad, he was very wrong. I was going to boot his bald ass out.
“Oh, but I’m very proud of my kids, Drew,” my dad announced cheerily. He stood at the front door, wiping his shoes on the outdoor rug on the porch before entering. He was lanky like me, and his six foot two inches were very hard to ignore. He took off his gimme cap and shoes and put them in the storage closet by the door. “They haven’t murdered anyone…yet.” My dad winked at me. “How’s it going, Charity?”
He trooped toward the kitchen sink to wash his hands of the grease that he could never get rid of entirely. For as long as I could remember, my dad’s hands were always stained with it. He wiped his hands with the dish towel hanging on the fridge handle and put water in the kettle to boil.
“You should encourage your kids more, Mike, so they can have big dreams, unlike…”
Unlike you was what he wanted to say.
Son of a bitch. I opened my mouth to deliver a killing blow, but my dad popped a piece of bread in my mouth. He sat on one of the barstools under the kitchen island that served as our dining table.
“I only need them to be decent human beings.” He smiled indulgently at Andrew. “Kara helps me with paperwork, and I’m training Dylan in the shop. They’re both with me. Healthy, happy. All I need, Drew. All I need.”
Andrew’s children didn’t ever visit him. They were too busy with their lives to bother with their parents.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charity look at my dad with longing. I heard from my dad’s sister that Charity liked my dad when they were younger, but my dad fell in love with my self-absorbed mother, who broke his heart and left him in the end.
Maybe that was why Andrew always looked down on my dad. He was still bitter. My dad, however, always respected him. When my grandparents’ farm wasn’t doing well, Andrew had sent money until they were back on their feet again. My dad always told me to have patience for my uncle because he owed a lot to him. I understood that. Why did he think I hadn’t murdered Andrew yet?
But right now, I really needed to put some distance between me and my uncle. Besides, four people in the house felt a little claustrophobic to me, so it was either escape to my room—which would upset my dad because he’d think it was rude—or leave, which was the safest bet. I’d tell him I needed to go to the library and study like a responsible college student. But first, my phone.
I tuned them out and stopped at the closed bathroom door, listening. My heart started beating faster at the thought of my phone ringing, but there was no sound on the other side. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.
Ten missed calls.
From Dylan.
What the hell did he do now?
I turned the faucet on—I was sure I would hear a heartfelt lecture about paying the water bill from Andrew when I came out—and stood in the tub so they wouldn’t hear me. The walls in the house were paper thin.
“Kar? Why the hell weren’t you answering your phone?”
I scratched the back of my neck. Itchy. Frustrated. “Just so you know, Sour Face is here.”
“Ah. Glad I’m not there then.”
“Where are you?”
“At a friend’s house. Kar…I need your help.”
Pause.
“Did you kill anyone?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you put someone in the hospital?”
“No.”
“Are you in the hospital?”
“No. I told you, I’m at a friend’s house.”
“I don’t have money, Dylan. I told you—”
“It’s not that. I… You know this morning when I tried collecting that bill for the Camaro?”