Page 52 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

My feelings for him have been developing quickly, and I think I’ve finally come to terms with that. Accepting fate as it is.

Truthfully, he’s made me happier than I’ve ever been. He makes me forget about the grief trapped in my heart, and without that grief consuming me, I feel free. I’m beginning to feel a little more normal again. I might not ever be whole, but I won’t be completely broken.

I’ve contemplated telling Dad countless times, but with the lack of communication between us, there hasn’t ever been a right time. I also worry about what Dad will think. Will he accept it and grow to see Alec for who he really is? It’s hard to guess.

I head downstairs to get something to eat when Dad’s low whispers cause me to stop on the top step. Whatever he’s talking about, he doesn’t want me to hear. Slowly, I tiptoe down each step, avoiding the creakier areas so I can hear better but my foot slips and I fall directly on my butt. My hand flies to cover my mouth to cover the screech that vibrates from my lungs. But it doesn’t stop Dad from hearing me.

“I have to go. We’ll talk about this later when I get into the office,” he says to whoever is on the other line, his tone deeper than usual.

Using the railing, I pull myself up just as Dad turns the corner. “Hi, Dad.” His jaw ticks, and for some reason, I feel the need to explain myself. “I was coming down to get something to eat and missed a step.”

He stares at me for a beat before nodding and walking into the kitchen. I can’t tell if he believes me or if he’s pretending to. I try not to let it bother me as I follow him, trying to ignore the pain I feel on my right side.

I walk right past Dad. He places his palms on the kitchen table and leans over it while I head straight to the fridge to pour myself a cup of orange soda.

“Who were you talking to?” I ask to try and start a conversation. I know it’s not the appropriate thing to ask, but at this point, I’m not sure what else to say to him.

Dad’s chest rises as he takes a deep breath before his eyes meet mine. “I need you to sit down.”

The look in his eye sends anxiety to bubble between my ribs. I do ask he says and sit down, hoping that maybe he is finally ready to be civil with me.

Dad runs a thumb across his tight jaw. “I am very disappointed in you, Summer,” he begins.

Disappointed in me?

“I’m sorry, but what have I done wrong?” It’s a logical question.

“You embarrassed me. Your own father.” He grips his belt with both hands. His lips are tight, but I don't miss the way the corner twitches causing a small wrinkle to move with it.

The crease between my eyebrows deepens as I try to figure out how I could have possibly embarrassed my father. I watch him carefully, studying him. His thumb taps against his thigh.

I go to say something, but slam my mouth shut as he continues, “You stood in front of everyone at your mother’s funeral and made a huge scene.” His chest puffs as he lets out a low rumble sound. “You had one job at this funeral. Speak about your mother. And you took it upon yourself to imply to a group of police officers that they aren’t doing their job correctly.”

Wait. Is he serious? It’s been three days.

From the looks of how he’s staring at me, he’s dead fucking serious. Which leaves me questioning so much more. There's a sting in my chest from his words. One that I can't shove away.

“Why now?”

It’s like he doesn’t bother to listen to me. I know he heard me because he shakes his head. “The case is closed, Summer. Her killer won’t be found because there is no evidence. We’ve looked. There is nothing. I’m sorry if that isn’t enough closure for you, but there is not a single thing you can do about it.”

My teeth grit together. “Did you fight for them to close the case?” I ask in a mere whisper, not meaning to ask this question in this way, but needing to get it out.

“Come again?” He arches a brow.

My throat closes, but I manage to repeat myself louder this time. “Did you fight for them to close Mom’s case?”

A strange laugh comes from his mouth, and he shakes his head. “Do you really think that I killed my own wife?” The grip on his belt tightens, his knuckles turning stark white.

Fear surges through me. I’ve never seen my father act this way.

The legs of the chair scrape against the kitchen floor as I scramble to stand. “I didn’t say that.”

He tilts his head, and walks closer to me. The darkness in his eyes has me backing up until the counter is lodged into my back with a small sting. Dad’s eyes darken as he stares into my worried eyes. “No. But you do think that, don’t you?”

My eyes flutter, and I shake my head, trying to swallow down the terror rising through my esophagus. “Of course not,” I stutter between bated breaths.

I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth. I don’t believe he would kill his own wife. Dad loved Mom more than anything in the entire world, but that doesn’t stop me from believing he is covering something up.

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