Conceal (The Barker Triplets 3)

“Are you guys staying for dinner?” Betty cracked her neck to look up at Bobbi.

Her sister’s short bob was a mess, her mouth was swollen and her cheeks were flushed.

“Um,” Bobbi said glanced back at Shane.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Betty said.

“We can stay if you want.”

“So that I can watch the two of you make out like a couple of teenagers? No thanks. Not my idea of fun.” She glanced around. “Where’s Gramps?”

“Out back with his bees.”

That brought a small smile to Betty’s face. Herschel Barker loved his bees. She’d bet anything he was decked out in his white coveralls—even in this heat—with his white ball cap and large, black, farmer boots.

Betty paused and then said quietly. “How was Dad today? He seemed so normal at breakfast. As if nothing happened.”

“He’s good,” Bobbi answered and then sighed. “I made sure he took his anxiety pills.” Bobbi paused. “Bets, I don’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to stay here. Last night…He could have fallen in the river. The thought of him alone out there and in danger…He’s starting to scare me, you know? It’s not fair, that burden, not on you or Gramps or any of us.”

Betty nodded, but didn’t answer. She didn’t have the mental strength to talk about this right now. She’d think about it later. You know, when her head was clear and she’d banished all emotion from her psyche.

“Go,” she waved at her sister. “I’ll see you guys later.”

The warm breeze, the smell of lilac, and the buzzing of the cicadas in the garden lulled Betty into a place of calm. Her head fell back, her eyes slowly closed, and eventually she fell asleep for a few hours, coming awake with a start and groaning at the stiffness in her neck.

“Christ,” she muttered struggling to sit up. Her long legs hung over the end of the chair and as she straightened, she realized that she wasn’t alone. Her father stood a few feet away, his mouth pensive, his eyes intense as he stared at her.

Warily, she eyed him. “Dad?”

Trent Barker shook his head, rubbing his arms as if cold. “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked harshly.

Betty’s heart sank. She knew what was coming. Instead of replying, she slowly got to her feet. Another time and place would have found her smart mouth leading the charge, but it wasn’t good to antagonize her father when he was like this.

He took a step forward and her eyes ran over the faded, stained, grey cardigan he wore. His pants were wrinkled and she was willing to bet he’d slept in them. And his hair…shoot, she needed to call the barber. It was just easier to have Bill Mason come by when Trent was having a good day.

Which definitely wasn’t today. How the hell had he gone from being so nice this morning—making Betty eggs even though she didn’t want them—to this?

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said roughly.

Here we go. Where was Gramps? Usually, he rescued her.

“Dressed like a slut with your tits and ass nearly hanging out. Where is your pride girl? Or do you like the fact that the entire town thinks you’re nothing but a two-bit whore? You think I don’t know what they say about you? You think I don’t know about all the boys you’ve been with?”

Ouch.

His voice rose.

So did Betty’s heart rate. She knew it was better to just shut the hell up when he was like this, but the hurt inside her threatened to explode. It was getting harder to stay quiet.

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Harder not to tell him to shut up—he didn’t know one fucking thing about her. How could he? He’d always treated Betty as an afterthought. She wasn’t the hockey phenom. She wasn’t the smart go-getter that Bobbi was.

Trent moved toward her so fast she nearly fell back on the chair. He was close enough that Betty could see the weird light in his eyes and she knew he was beyond agitated.

“You need to march your ass upstairs and put some clothes on, you hear? I won’t have no daughter of mine running around looking like that.”

The disgust in his voice was clear. The dislike in his eyes even clearer. That look shot straight into Betty. It penetrated the layers she’d built up.