Page 14 of Stolen Sin

Only to find him sitting on his bed with his back to me, a photo album open on his lap, weeping into his hands.

I don’t move. I feel glued in place. My father’s shoulders and back shake with sobs, and I don’t know what to do. My insides are mush, and my toes are numb.

I’ve never seen him cry before, not since my mother died. He was always so big, so stoic, so damn strong. Even when he broke down and told me about the scam, he didn’t shed a tear. He keeps it together; that defines my father. He’s dependable. He’s always been my rock.

Now, he looks so small, so horribly sad, and so damn old.

It kills me. It rips my heart in half. I take a step forward, because I need to hug him, I need to tell him that I love him and he gave me the greatest childhood a girl could ever imagine, anything to take away this soul-ripping agony he’s going through.

But he looks up, startled, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “Emily,” he says and slams the photo album closed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Hey, Dad.” I hang, pausing halfway between us. He draws himself up, putting on his mask again, though his eyes are red and bleary. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he says and forces himself to laugh. I want to scream at how he pretends and hides how he feels. “Just looking at old pictures of you and your mom, that’s all. Got a little dust in my eyes.”

“Yeah, totally, a little dust. Need me to vacuum some more?”

“Nah, kiddo. I may be old, but I’m not useless.” He clears his throat and tosses the album aside. “What’re you doing here? I didn’t think you’d show up until later today.”

“Got some extra bagels at work. I thought you might want them.”

“Ah, come on, you keep them. You’ve been looking so damn skinny lately.” He’s one to talk. The man barely eats anymore. My dad is frail. I hate it so much.

He grins at me, shaking his head and trying to discreetly wipe his eyes. I feel like I’m going to break down, but Dad would hate that, and I don’t want to make him have to comfort me when he’s clearly going through so much worse.

“How about we both have one. I’m kind of starving after my shift anyway.”

“Perfect,” he says, drifting to his bathroom. “Just gonna use the john. You go get them toasted, okay?”

“Sure, Dad.” I turn away, because what else can I do? Breaking the illusion would be cruel. He needs his game to keep a piece of himself intact. Otherwise, he’d have to admit how much he’s lost, and I don’t think my father can handle that.

I go downstairs and I toast bagels, feeling like I’m floating, because my father is suffering and I could end it tomorrow. I cry as quietly as I can and make sure that he doesn’t notice, making damn sure that he doesn’t take my own suffering on top of his.

I could fix everything for him and more.

If only I was willing to feed myself to a stranger.

Chapter 9

Simon

I’m lost in the middle of a sea of clinking glasses, forks on plates, and low conversation. The lighting’s low beneath an expensive chandelier, and my father grunts his way through a boring story. The chief of the Chicago PD is a man named Christopher Morgan, and the only thing he loves more than fighting crime and acting like a hot-shot cop is telling boring stories about his boat.

“And that’s when my granddaughter, no more than five years old, hoists this enormous fish over the side and everyone’s screaming as it flops around, making a damn mess, you should’ve seen their faces, Alessandro!” Christopher roars with laughter. He’s a pink-faced older man with heavy wrinkles and white eyebrows. If Central Casting put out a call for distinguished-looking police officer, he’d get the job every time.

“You take your family fishing,” Dad comments, plastering a grimace on his face that’s probably meant to be a smile. “How wonderful.”

If Christopher notices how off my father’s acting, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he digs into his expensive steak and regales us with another story while I flag down the waiter and order my second glass of whiskey.

The meat tastes like cardboard and the company is dull, but this is part of the job. We take important people like Christopher out for expensive meals at high-end restaurants and we pretend to enjoy their stories about catching fish with their grandkids. Normally, Dad’s great at this; he’s charming, outgoing, the sort of man who can make anyone feel at home. That’s been his superpower and part of his rapid rise to dominance over the city. He builds alliances like normal people gather flowers.

But today, it’s almost painful to watch. Dad’s crotchety and barely paying attention, and by the time Christopher’s through with his second dull-as-fuck story, I’m thinking about putting a bullet in my head. But the old cop’s starting to notice something’s up.

Which means I have to step in and take over since Dad’s clearly not going to. “You mentioned your granddaughter likes to swim. Did you teach her yourself?”

“I wish. Her overprotective parents wouldn’t let the girl anywhere near a pool without at least ten hours of professional training. It was crazy! At her age, I was thrown into the damn lake and told to either figure it out or sink to the bottom.” He laughs loudly, and I make myself join in, while Dad continues to glare at his food like it’s about to reanimate and gore him with horns.

Lunch is horrendous. Dad’s been off lately, but this is by far his worst performance. Unfortunately for everyone, there’s business to handle.

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