A Blind Eye (10 page)

I noticed for the first time that his black hair had steely-gray flecks around the temples. I got my height and solid build from my dad. The rest of my looks came from Mom. The brown hair, blue eyes. He motioned for me to sit in a chair across the desk from him. It was like I was back in the police station with Detective Parker. Only the police station felt friendlier.

I lowered myself down onto the shiny metal chair frame and black sparsely-padded seat cushion. I folded my arms and examined my shoes. My cool, expensive shoes that all the kids in my high school wished they had. I owned a pair in every color.

“Why did you leave?” he asked.

That was his first question? He was a brilliant man who made his living by dragging the truth out of the hardest of criminals. He must have already known the answer. How could he treat me like this for eight years and then not have a clue why I left? Anyway, how was the motive behind my running away more interesting than
why were you in jail for murder
?

I shrugged, concentrating all my efforts on keeping my face impassive. “I'll be eighteen in two months. I thought it would be better to leave at the beginning of the school year instead of partway through.” For years, I'd planned that the moment I was legal, I'd be gone. Last week, I moved plans forward a few months.

That answer didn't fully explain the
why.
But since I wasn't under oath, I felt no need to divulge more than absolutely necessary. If I wanted to maintain any level of composure, I couldn't think about the real reason—the one sitting on the other side of the desk.

I lifted my gaze from my stylish feet and found him staring at me, his lawyer eyes drilling into me.

“Tell me about the girl.”

I started with the same story I told Connor in the restaurant. “I found her on the side of the road. She was alone. I took her to Shari's for a meal. While we were there, some guys came in looking for trouble. We left, and the next morning the waitress was found dead. The guys in the restaurant told the police I killed her. We went to the police because those thugs were still harassing us, and the detective slammed us in jail.”

It was the bare-bones truth, and I kept steady eyes on my dad. Already, this was the longest conversation I could remember having with him in my entire life. I cursed the beads of sweat betraying me on my forehead and the way my throat kept getting tighter and tighter.

“Where is she from?”

“London.” This was really beginning to feel like the courtroom.

“Why is she here alone?”

I looked back at my shoes. He knew how to ask the important questions. The ones that cut to the core without wasting time on the periphery.

Should I tell him she was kidnapped? Scarlett seemed hesitant to bring that up. I could lie. Even if he knew I was lying, I doubted he'd do anything about it. But I didn't want to lie. Regardless of all the emptiness between us, he was my dad. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted him to know that killers were chasing me, that I cared about the girl upstairs. That my life was so chock full of misery, I'd ended up on the bathroom floor.

Then he finds me in jail. Isn't that when dads are supposed to ask questions like
Are you okay? Do you need help?
Not my dad. He wanted to know about the girl.

Why couldn't he see me? What was so wrong with me that he didn't care about me at all?
Come on, lava.
There had to be some magma churning under Portland; we weren't that far from the volcano.
Boil up and save me.

I blinked hard, working my jaw to get back in control. “She doesn't have a family.” I lost it on the last word and had to grit my teeth to steady my voice. Who even knew what a family was anymore? Not me. I steeled myself before meeting his gaze. He seemed not to notice that his son was falling apart. He must've seen it in the courtroom every day.

The doorbell rang, and I stood up. “I ordered a pizza. We haven't eaten in a long time, and Scarlett gets hungry.”

He walked around the desk and held my chin with one hand, tilting my head to get a better view of Connor's handiwork. His hand was warm and gentler than I'd expected. It wasn't the father's touch I longed for, but it was so much better than the nothing.

I ached for that hand to pat me on the back, to give me an awkward, father-to-grown-up-son hug, a squeeze on the shoulder. Anything. Anything to indicate he cared more about me than he did about the icy mountain peaks framed behind him.

“Thanks for coming for me,” I whispered.

He dropped his hand and said in a cold, steady tone, “If you run away again, I'll cut you off from everything. Do you understand?”

I nodded, and he strode out of the den. I watched him walk down the hall until he disappeared into his bedroom. His shoulders slumped as he moved out of sight.

A prisoner again. Why did he care whether I stayed in his house or not? Did he want the control? Or was it the money? Was he mad about what I'd taken from his safe? He didn't sound mad. He sounded . . . disappointed.

The doorbell rang again, followed by a loud knock. The pizza.

I went in the opposite direction of my father and swung open the heavy front door. I paid the guy, put the food on the kitchen counter, and went up for Scarlett.

She lay on her back, spread eagle. “Comfy bed. How'd it go with your father?”

“Fine.”

“Was he mad?”

“No. He's never mad,” I said, my voice raw and scratchy.

“You sound like you've been in the wars.”

“I guess I kind of feel like it. Pizza's here. You hungry or not?” Maybe I just needed some food too. Something to get my blood sugar up and my head thinking clearly.

“All right, all right. Don't get yer knickers in a twist.” She scooted off the bed and held out her hand.

I shook my head. “Okay, now you're just doing it on purpose.”

“What?”

“Spouting random phrases that you know I'll never understand.”

“Well, knickers are—”

“No. Don't explain. I got that one.”

I led Scarlett to the kitchen and found my dad rummaging through the fridge. He had a wineglass on the counter filled with burgundy liquid. If I'd been alone, I'd have turned and walked away. Especially tonight, after the interrogation. But Scarlett was hungry. I sat her in the center of the kitchen at the island bar.

“Hi, Mr. Morris. Want some pizza?” she said out of nowhere.

All activity in the kitchen ceased. Dad was reaching for his drink—no doubt working on his own getaway—when his hand froze. My plates halted halfway to the counter. A perfectly innocent smile played on Scarlett's face, like an angel with a halo of pink. She didn't wear her dark glasses. I think she knew I preferred her eyes without the barrier.

I didn't dare look up. I'd seen enough of him for one day. I just carried on like we always did, pretending the other didn't exist. I put a slice on a plate and set it front of Scarlett. I placed her hand on the crust edge and said, “Meat Lover Madness. I hope you're hungry.”

“Starved.”

I put a soda in her other hand. She sipped it then set it down. “Disgusting. What is that?”

Dad leaned back against the counter, watching. My appetite was quickly slipping away, replaced by coils of rope that knotted themselves tighter and tighter the longer he stayed.

“It's root beer,” my father said.

I almost dropped my food on the floor.

“Never heard of it.” She took another sip and shuddered. “Nasty. And so sweet. Tastes like cough syrup.”

In some ways, Scarlett wasn't too far off. But when my mom was alive, we used to have pizza night on Fridays, and she always served it with root beer.

“It's the best drink when you're having pizza,” Dad said, taking a plate from the cupboard and sliding a slice onto it.

The tip of my pizza drooped, stalled between the plate and my open mouth. A pepperoni slithered toward the edge. Was he eating with us? And chatting? He wouldn't look at me, but still, this was unprecedented.

He picked up his glass of wine and dumped it down the drain, feeding the sewers about a hundred dollars' worth of Bordeaux. He twisted a plastic bottle of root beer out of the six-pack. “I'll just . . . leave you two alone now.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Morris,” Scarlett said. “For everything.”

My dad nodded at her then left the room, meeting my eyes for a split second as he passed. The pepperoni slid off my pizza and slapped onto the floor. Strings of mozzarella dangled after it, reaching out to bring it home.

Scarlett tried to pull another slice from the box. I'd been so distracted by my dad's strange behavior, I hadn't noticed her groping for the pizza container.

“Here, let me get that.” I put two more slices on her plate and cleaned up the lost pepperoni. What was he up to? Just being polite to a guest? It's true he wasn't the Ice King to everyone. Other people really liked him. He was a huge success at work and one of the best lawyers in the city. He must have some good qualities; he just never shared them with me.

Scarlett and I ate and talked and laughed for a while then went up to turn in. It was almost midnight, and the strain of the day had pushed me over the edge. I showed Scarlett my room down the hall in case she needed anything during the night then crawled into bed.

I dreamed we were eating at Shari's restaurant. When the waitress asked us for our order, her neck was slit open and blood stained her clothing. Scarlett screamed like a demon possessed. I bolted out of bed.

I heard the scream again; it came from Scarlett's room.

Dream or bad guys? Hard to tell. What if Connor had found her? If he found us at the cabin, he'd have no trouble tracking us here. But we had a security system, and we weren't alone. I grabbed a tennis racket—it was all I had—and raced down the hall. She screamed again.

Christian vs. The Nightmare

I burst into Scarlett's room, tennis racket cocked and ready. She tossed and turned in her bed, moaning and crying. Other than Scarlett, the room was empty. Another dream. Did she have them every night?

“Scarlett, wake up.” I shook her gently. “Hey, it's just a dream, wake up.”

She stopped thrashing, and her eyes popped open. She sat up and asked, “Where's Christian?”

“I'm right here. I think you're having a nightmare.”

She sat still for minute, her panting gradually subsiding. “I had another dream.” She leaned her head on my chest.

I stroked her short hair and rubbed her back like I'd seen loving parents do on television. “Was it Katie again?”

She shook her head. “No. It was someone else.” Her voice was softer than a whisper but also strained and sore.

Did that mean she was predicting the death of another person? “Who was it? Do you want to tell me about it?”

Again, she shook her head.

Something creaked in the hall downstairs, like the sound of a person sneaking. “Quiet. There's someone in the house.” I didn't need to say it; she'd heard it too.

I tried to rise, but she tightened her grip on my shirt. “Don't go. They'll kill you.”

I pressed a finger to my lips. Idiot. Would I never learn? “Shh.” I pried her hand off my shirt and crept toward the door, holding the tennis racket at the perfect angle so that when I smacked the intruder, it would be with the rim and not the sweet spot.

Dim light from the street lamps shone in through the big window in the entryway and cast a long shadow that crept toward Scarlett's room. I jumped out, yelling like a barbarian.

My dad stood in the hallway, both hands holding a heavy black handgun pointed at my chest. Instantly, his hands dropped to his sides. “Christian,” he said breathlessly. “You startled me.”

“You have a gun?” How did I not know that? Just because we never talked didn't mean I wasn't good at snooping. I thought I knew everything about his possessions, but this really surprised me.

“I heard screams. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Scarlett has nightmares. I went in to check on her.” I couldn't take my eyes off his weapon. “Why do you have a gun?”

“Why do you have a tennis racket?”

Did I detect sarcasm in his voice? “In case there's a bad guy,” I said.

“Exactly.” He turned and went down the stairs, back to his room.

Did he just joke with me?

I glanced down at the racket by my side and realized I was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. I thought I should put pants on before going back to Scarlett. Then I remembered it didn't matter.
Put some on anyway
, I told myself.

“Was it your dad?” she asked from two feet behind me.

I jumped so high I nearly hit the ceiling. “Okay, everyone in this house needs to stop sneaking around.” I took Scarlett's arm. “You. Back to bed.”

She slipped under her covers. With any luck, she'd make it through the rest of the night without dreaming. I shuffled back to my bedroom, tossing the racket in the closet as I passed. Even though the incident was over now, I pulled on some sweat pants anyway before hopping back in bed.

I lay in the dark, eyes wide, listening to my heart rate slow. I pictured men creeping around outside the house, women with long hair pulled up in a knot performing surgery, a dead waitress lying in the rhododendrons on the other side of the river, my dad with his hand on my chin.

“Are you awake?” It was an almost inaudible whisper at my door.

“Yes.”

Scarlett pushed the door open the rest of the way and tiptoed in. “Where are you?”

“I'm over here.”

She followed my voice until she bumped into my bed. “I'm scared.”

I sat up and flipped on my lamp.

For the first time, I saw something in her eyes. Behind that wall of milk-chocolate brown, she was terrified.