Page 134 of The Kiss of Deception

My vocal cords tie into messy knots with all the years’ worth of things unspoken, my voice strangled as surprise blends with disbelief, denial with blatant refusal.

“Zoe,” my father whispers my name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s dusty from months without use.

“What are you doing here?”

Sitting in his tweed pants and matching vest, staring with glossy blue eyes. Like he’d never left.

My temples throb with the day-old headache that worsens at his sight. I consider rubbing them to soothe it but my fingers are curled inside my palms.

“Your Grandpa is—He might—” He’s unable to even mutter the words, as though they hurt him when I know for a fact he doesn’t care.

Not enough.

“Hasn’t mattered before.”

Before the words are out, something flashes in my memory—and my narrowed eyes widen with realization.

The shadow.

The flowers.

“It was you?”

He swallows thickly, his lack of response confirming my conclusion.

“It was you,” I repeat disbelievingly.

Months ago, when it was me in that bed in this building.

Convinced the flowers were from Miles, I’d never considered anyone else. Who else could it be, if not my boyfriend?

Someone else, apparently.

My father.

Just like the shadow in the hospital that I attributed to a courtesy of my demons haunting me all night in the corridor window.

I don’t know what to do with that knowledge.

My priority lies somewhere else, right now—a hospital bed.

“You have to go. Now. You shouldn’t be the first person he sees when he wakes up. Wouldn’t want him to have another heart attack.”

Although he winces at my harshness, he nods, too.

I’m reeling. I will be, for a long time. So many things played a part in who I am today, good and bad, and I don’t know half of them.

How can I ever understand myself if I’m oblivious to what made me?

“I’m sorry I didn’t—When you—” His voice cracks. He pauses to gather it. “I was so afraid I’d lose you. Then I realized I already had—and I don’t know how to get you back.”

I have no use for his apologies, so I open my mouth to quiet his.

Like he can read my mind, he rushes to speak first. “You’re my daughter. I love you more than anything. I went away because I wanted to give you a normal, safe life. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing anyone else, so I told myself I had to go to protect you.” He runs a hand across the years on his face. “But I think it was me I was protecting. In the end, I lost my family anyway.”

His decisions weigh on his shoulders and he seems smaller—and smaller still—by the second, with every sentence.

After months and years on end without seeing his face, I can’t stand more than a few moments. I have to turn away. I walk to the window.

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