One Foot in the Grave

  “What makes you think he cares about that?” I ask.

  “Everyone cares,” she snaps.

  “Really? So you think I care?”

  She looks at me. “You’re different.”

  “Maybe you only feel that way about me because you gave me a chance. If you give Dex a chance, you might learn—”

  “Not everyone’s like you.”

  “And not everyone is like Candace and Jami.”

  She moans. “I don’t give a shit how Candace or Jami feel about me. Part of me doesn’t give a shit how anyone feels. I’m so damn proud of both of my heritages and when someone rejects me because of one of them, I get so freaking pissed.”

  I look at her and think I know what happened. “What boy rejected you?”

  She exhales. For a minute, I don’t think she’s going to answer and then she does. “Brad. We dated for like six months. We even had sex. His parents invited me over for a barbeque. He asked me to remove my necklace and bracelet, told me I couldn’t tell them that I was part black. It hurt so bad!”

  “And that’s why you push people away,” I say.

  “I don’t push, I just don’t invite anyone to get close.”

  “But you shouldn’t judge everyone just because of him.”

  “And you should get over Carl.”

  “I’m working on it,” I say and I really am. I’m ready, I think. Ready to hit the restart button.

  We get quiet for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the park. A few kids are playing on the swings, and ducks and geese are splashing in the water.

  “Did I tell you I think I have a job?” Kelsey says.

  I know it’s an effort to defuse the tension, but I let it pass. “No. I didn’t know you were looking for a job.”

  “I wasn’t. But Mom’s work needs someone to help them with their social media. She suggested me. I’m supposed to go Thursday morning for an interview.”

  “So does that mean you’d have to work after school every day?” I try not to feel sorry for myself for losing my after-school buddy.

  “No. I’ll work from home. Make my own hours, sort of.”

  I pull my knees closer. “I wanted to get a job before we moved here, but Dad said it was only okay if I could find something that was just on the weekends.”

  My phone rings. I glance at it. “Speak of the devil,” I say and take the call.

  “Where are you?” Dad’s voice, sounding stern, flows through the line.

  “At the park with Kelsey.”

  “Just Kelsey?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I frown and worry about getting his permission for Saturday. I’d better mention it tonight and get it over with.

  “So you didn’t fix dinner?”

  I cringe a little. “Uh, no.”

  I think he’s about to chastise me, but instead he says, “Well, why don’t you pick up a pizza on your way home. I should be home soon.”

  “What time?” I ask, not wanting to go home and be alone.

  “Soon.” He hangs up and his tone takes me back to worrying about him. I’d pushed my Dad concerns to the back burner with everything else going on. But they are back.

  Just what I need. Something else to eat at my sanity.

  • • •

  When I pull up to the house, Dad’s car isn’t parked in the driveway. Thinking that Evil Allen might have gotten my address, I’m nervous to be home alone. What are the chances Dad pulled into the garage? Not great, since he’s never done that.

  I actually consider just driving around the block until I see his car, but then I feel like a coward. Plus, I want to watch the news, in case there’s something about Abby and a new investigation.

  Before I pull into the driveway, I check up and down the street for any strange cars. Nothing. I pull into the drive, grab the pizza, and hurry inside.

  I don’t breathe until I hear the click of the lock. Even then I stand in the hallway listening for any noise telling me to run like hell.

  I don’t hear anything, until Pumpkin turns the corner purring and demanding love.

  If someone were in the house, well, anyone but Hayden, Pumpkin would be hiding. I hold the pizza in one hand and pick up Pumpkin with the other, snuggling him with my cheek. He purrs louder.

  I make my way into the kitchen, checking for Hayden just in case he’s still here, and drop off the pizza. I’m so busy loving on Pumpkin that I almost don’t notice the light beeping on the phone. My first thought is that Dad went MIA at work again and Ms. Duarte was hunting him down.

  I rush over and hit rewind on the antique answering machine. “Four new messages,” the machine says in an automated voice.

  Four?

  The first three are hang-ups. I feel the unease start at the base of my neck.

  The fourth message is Dad. “Where are you? I’ll call your cell.”

  I think about the hang-ups. Could Evil Allen have tracked down my phone number? How hard would it be, since Dad still lists us in the phone book?

  I breathe in. Breathe out. Tell myself not to panic. But I grab my cell and call Dad. He answers on the second ring.

  “Hey, I’m here with the pizza.”

  “Sorry, I got hung up on something. I should be there in about an hour.”

  An hour. Shit.

  “Okay. See you then.” What else can I say? Can you hurry up because I think a serial rapist is after me? Not good.

  I hang up and go check all the locks. Then I snatch up Pumpkin as if he will keep me safe. I walk to the living room, find the remote and drop on the couch.

  I find my soft spot between the sofa’s cushions, but I’m so tense it doesn’t feel comfortable. Still snuggling Pumpkin, I turn the television on.

  The news is already on. When I see the reporter standing in front of Lake Canyon State Park, my attention is revved up, I catch my breath and drop Pumpkin in my lap. This has to be about Abby, doesn’t it?

  “Brian County Police Department has refused to comment thus far, but they aren’t denying that they are relooking into the cause of death in the Abby Howard case and that William Griffin, a park employee, is now considered a person of interest.”

  “Yes!” I pump a fist in the air. Pumpkin, taken by surprise, bolts off my lap.

  I’m literally doing a happy dance on the sofa . . . until the reporter continues. “When a detective spoke with the park attendant briefly this morning over the phone, he agreed to come down to the station for an interview. We’re told that Griffin never showed. And according to his boss at the park, Griffin disappeared from work shortly after that conversation and has not been seen since.”

  “Freaking hell!” I yell. “Why the heck did you call him and give him a chance to run? Are you idiots?”

  I’m furious. Livid.

  And then I hear banging on my front door.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I bolt to the kitchen and grab a butcher knife. The doorbell rings again.

  Knife in hand, I move to the dining room to peer through the blinds. I feel like an idiot when I see a kid standing there.

  I forget I’m holding the knife and rush to open the door. The kid looks scared. “Uh, sorry, I was cutting vegetables,” I say.

  I feel so bad that I order candy from the boy for his school fundraiser.

  By the time Dad gets home, my heart is almost back to beating normally.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Dad says as he puts paper plates on the table.

  “I wasn’t that hungry.” I pull the pizza from the oven and place it on the table. Then I snag a couple of water bottles from the fridge.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  “Busy,” Dad says.

  “Bad busy?” I ask.

  “I work at a funeral home.”

  I’m a little shocked by his answer. This is only the second time I’ve ever heard him complain about the job. That tells me Dad’s mood hasn’t improved since I spoke to him on the phone. I need to change that, because I need to bri
ng up Saturday.

  We eat. I talk about how the video we saw today in auto tech. Dad feigns interest in what I’m saying, but I can tell he isn’t really into it.

  Finally, I pick up my third slice of pizza and right before I take a big bite I drop the bomb. “I’ve been invited to a party Saturday night.”

  “Whose party? Kelsey’s?”

  “No. Jacob Adams.”

  Dad sets his half-eaten slice down and the scowl that’s been waiting to come out makes an appearance. “The same guy you went out with already without introducing him to me?”

  “It wasn’t . . .” I bite my lip. “Yes, he’s my auto tech partner. And you met him at the car show.”

  “I thought he had a girlfriend.”

  “They broke up. Look, Dad, he’s a nice guy and the party is at his parents’ lake house and they will be there. So it’s completely safe.”

  “I think you should have him over for dinner sometime before you go out with him.”

  I so don’t like his tone. “He’s planning on coming over early so you can officially meet him.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?” His frown is firm, but damn it, he doesn’t have a right to be like this. I’m a good kid. I help out around the house and, until I had a serial rapist after me, I’d cooked dinner most nights. I never break curfew. Heck, for the last year, I haven’t even gone out. I finally get asked to do something and he’s saying no.

  “Dad, you aren’t being fair.”

  “I don’t have to be fair.”

  I’m stunned by that answer. “I’ll be eighteen in two months. And like I said, his parents will be at the party.”

  “I already said what I have to say!” he spouts out.

  His bad attitude spills all over me and I soak it up. “Why are you doing this?” Now my tone is sharp.

  “Because I’m your father.”

  “No, that’s not why. It’s because you got Mom pregnant before you got married.”

  Dad’s eyes round and his mouth hangs open. He’s not used to me talking back. Normally I don’t. Because I am a good kid.

  “How . . . do you know that?” he asks.

  How do I know that? Because I was snooping in your room looking for alcohol and found the wedding picture you never showed me! I literally bite into my lip to keep from spilling my guts. I need to think fast because he’s waiting for an answer.

  “When we were unpacking I saw the picture of you and Mom when you got married. She had a baby bump. Is that why you’ve never let me see the picture? What else are you hiding from me, Dad?”

  He doesn’t deny my accusation, but instead says, “We made a mistake.”

  “So you’re afraid I’ll make the same mistake.”

  “The answer is still no.” His firm tone escalates to anger.

  Now it’s my mouth that falls open. “This is so unfair. I’m not going to have sex with Jacob when his parents are around.”

  His eyes widen. His cheeks redden.

  “Yeah, it’s a word, Dad. It’s spelled S-E-X. And if you ever allowed yourself to talk to me about it, you’d know I’m the kind of kid you can trust. You’d learn that I know all about condoms and protection. About safe sex. But no. You sit here on your high horse judging me and telling me I can’t do something just because you and Mom made a mistake. That’s all kinds of wrong. I shouldn’t have to pay for your mistakes.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that, young lady!”

  “Again, I’m not that young!” I jump up. I fist my hands. Unfortunately, I’m still holding a slice of pepperoni pizza, so my fingers dig into the crust. “I’m going to that party, Dad. And unless you can get a lock on my door between now and then, you can’t stop me.”

  I swing around and storm off, carrying my anger, my attitude, and a slice of mangled pizza.

  “Riley,” he calls after me.

  I ignore him and march myself up the stairs. My chest is hurting. I’ve never talked to my dad like that before. But he’s never been so unreasonable before.

  When I get to my room, the pizza lands with a thud in my garage can, and I land face down on my bed. I moan, kick my feet like a two-year-old for one second, then roll over and stare at the ceiling. I feel my phone in my back pocket. I almost pull it out to call Kelsey and tell her what a dick my dad’s being.

  But I don’t want to talk to Kelsey. I want to talk to . . . Hayden. I want him to show up and lay on the bed to have one of our long talks with me. I want him to make me laugh. To make me forget how shitty my life is.

  But that’s not happening.

  Pumpkin jumps up in my bed and starts licking the pizza sauce and cheese goo from my fingers. I should go wash my hands. Brush my teeth. But I don’t move. I don’t care.

  My life really is shitty.

  • • •

  I wake up and roll over when my phone’s alarm dings to tell me it’s time to get up. I snuggle back under my blanket, hoping to wait until I hear Dad leave. Facing him this morning is not on my desired to-do list.

  I stay there for ten minutes listening. Did he get up early and leave? Maybe seeing me wasn’t on his desired to-do list either.

  Then I recall the mornings he overslept. Crap.

  I pop up, throw on my clothes and head downstairs. I run to the dining room window to see if his car’s gone. It’s not.

  I walk to his door and knock. “Dad, do you know what time it is?”

  He doesn’t answer. “Dad?” I knock harder. “It’s after seven.”

  I hear him mutter something and then he yelps, “Fuck.”

  I cringe. I’ve never heard him drop the f-bomb. Really good, Dad, a great example for me to live by. I guess I’m still pissed at him.

  I listen, to make sure he’s up. He is. I hear him scrambling.

  I walk back to the breakfast table.

  In only a few minutes, he storms out. He’s shirtless, but has on his suit pants and is holding a jacket and shirt in his arm.

  “I’m supposed to be there early.” He hauls ass to the door.

  “Dad?” I say.

  He swings around. “We’ll talk tonight. I may . . . I may have been wrong about the party.” He starts back toward the door.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. At least the man can see reason when it’s thrown at him, but . . .

  “Dad,” I say.

  “Gotta go!”

  I pop up and chase him into the entry room. “Dad.”

  “What?” He turns around.

  That’s when I notice his bloodshot eyes.

  “Your shoes,” I say.

  He looks down at his bare feet, then up. “Thanks.”

  He runs back to his room and comes out holding his shoes. I watch him leave.

  Who forgets his shoes? Someone with a hangover.

  The worry I feel over what he’s doing to himself takes up too much space in my chest. Damn it. What’s going to happen to him? What’s going to happen to him when I leave for college? Will he just drink himself to death?

  Damn! Damn! Damn!

  Tears fill my eyes.

  All of the sudden, Pumpkin comes hauling butt through the kitchen as if something scared him. And bam. I’m suddenly scared.

  Shit! I didn’t lock the door. I take off, tears in my eyes, and throw the deadbolt.

  Leaning against the door, I let go and the tears flow.

  I’m scared. I’m worried. I’m confused.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice . . . the oh-so-welcome voice reaching my ears goes right to my heart. I swing around. Hayden is standing there.

  “Where . . . have you . . . been?” My voice shakes.

  His blue eyes meet mine. “Trying to stay away.”

  “Why? I needed you.” I put my hand over my trembling lips.

  “We talked about that. You need to move on. You promised me.”

  “I am, but . . .” I walk right into his arms and let my head rest on his chest. It feels so right, so safe. Please don’t leave me again, I want to b
eg. Instead I just let myself cry.

  “What’s wrong?” I can feel his hands moving across my back. The touch is comforting, caring, cautious. I can tell he’s not sure he should be here. His hold is hesitant, as if he doesn’t know if he should push me away or pull me closer.

  I vote for closer, but then logic intervenes and I step back. I tell him about the letters I wrote, about Abby telling me the guy’s looking for me.

  “Damn,” he says. He takes both of my hands and holds them. “You’re going to have to go to the police.”

  “And say what? There’s not any part of the truth that they will believe.” My voice shakes and my heart trembles.

  “Riley, you’re not safe.”

  “I’ve tried to figure it out. I have nothing. I’m just praying they catch him.” Then all of my other issues spill out of me and I tell Hayden about Dad this morning, looking like he has a hangover again. “I don’t know what to do. I’d confront him again if I had any proof. But I don’t.”

  “Do you really want that proof?” he asks and stares at me as if he knows something, but isn’t sharing it.

  “What?” I ask.

  When he remains silent, I say, “What do you know, Hayden?”

  He glances back at my dad’s bedroom door. “He keeps the liquor in his dirty clothes hamper.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Just since last night.”

  Emotions are storming inside me. I’m furious that Dad’s drinking, and I’m angry that Hayden wasn’t going to tell me. I’m also hurt he was here last night and didn’t come see me.

  I rush past Hayden and swing open Dad’s bedroom door, bolting into the bathroom. I yank the top off his hamper and toss his dirty clothes out. Sure as hell, there are two bottles buried under some clothes and a blanket.

  Without thinking, I pull the tops off of both bottles and pour the contents down the sink. “You can’t drink it if it’s not here!” I seethe out the words, feeling justified, feeling righteous.

  No sooner do I watch the last swirl of alcohol circle the drain, than my sense of justice get sucked down with it.