Page 47 of Charity's Torment

I froze as my breath caught in my throat. As much as I wanted to finish the conversation of the missing girl, I couldn’t get the warning bells to stop ringing in my head. Where was he going with this? Why would Josh talk about my job? “What little opinion did Josh drop now?” I rubbed harder on my handle.

“Well, he said you were not forthcoming with us about your employment.”

I chewed on my lip. Why would he say something like that? “And what would he know? He’s never around.”

“Now, don’t go getting all defensive.” He placed his hands on his hips, taking up a bigger space than he already held.

“It’s hard not to when it sounds like I’m being accused of something.”

“No one is accusing you of anything. Why don’t you tell me what is going on? I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me.” He held his arms wide, mimicking my move.

“Dad, don’t interrogate me.” I shouldn’t be getting defensive. I know he thought he was only helping. My life was already in shambles. Why would my brother inflict more strife? I uprooted my entire life for him—still to this day—and then he goes and pulls this shit?

“I want to give you the opportunity to be honest with me.” He rubbed his hands over my shoulders, stopping me from the repetitive motions I used to distract myself. “I looked into it.”

“You did what?” My skin burned from my neck up to my face. I ground my teeth so hard I feared they might crack.

“I called your work. They said that you don’t work there.”

I shrugged out of his hold and stepped away from him. “Wow. I expected that from Mom. But from you? That’s low.” I felt something. Betrayal? Hurt? I never expected my father to violate my privacy, especially based on a statement from my brother.

“I was concerned.”

I chewed on my lip, put my hands behind me, and dug my thumb deep into my cut. The stinging pain shot up my arm, and tears pricked in my eyes. “I lost my job. Okay? Are you satisfied?” I looked away from him.

We didn’t get away with fake tears and emotions with Dad. He saw it all at work. You could see it in the courthouses and interrogations. For instance, there was a famous case of a woman that killed her child. During her interrogations and TV interviews, she feigned grief, but it was obvious she wasn’t experiencing genuine emotion. She had no tears, and there wasn’t any emotion in her eyes. I, on the other hand, inflicted authentic emotion and actual pain.

“Why? When? How come you said nothing?”

“I didn’t say anything because I was embarrassed. Plus, I didn’t want Mom to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Cupcake, you know we support you with what you do. Everyone loses a job at some point in their life.”

“Yeah. But not everyone has a perfectionist for a mother.”

That woman tried with every fiber of her being to control my life with precision. And not in the typical parental fashion where they told you when and where you could go. No. This was psychological and possessive control. As if letting me live my life was me rejecting her. She’d tell me the things I liked and micromanage my appearance and social life—not that I had one. I was a bit of a loner in all my school years. I never had privacy with her. Dad respected my need for it, until now, I guess. She was the person who made you earn their love. It didn’t come unconditionally.

“She’s… difficult. But that’s no excuse to keep things from us. You could have come to me.”

“What was I supposed to come to you about? I can handle it. I’m not hurting for money. I’m looking for another job.” I threw my hands up. “What there is no excuse for… is you violating my privacy instead of coming to me first.”

“You’re right. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

I crossed my arms and looked to the ground. “Thanks.”

Dad walked towards the car and reached into the passenger seat. “I also came to drop this off. I need to get back to work.” He handed me a container of Mom’s soup, and I accepted. It didn’t even appeal to me anymore.

He got back into his car and drove away without another word. He could be mad at me all he wanted, but my anger would rival his all night long.

The rage built up thinking of my brother and his deceitful way of trying to come between Dad and me. He was always jealous of our relationship. Maybe that had something to do with him being a killer and hiding away from everyone. He was only sixteen when he started with Vito. That made me a curious ten-year-old wondering why my brother would sneak back into the house with blood on his hands during the night.

I put my soup in the fridge, then redressed my blood-soaked bandage. My phone rang, and Luca’s name appeared. “What?”

“That’s no way to speak to your favorite person.”

I scoffed. “I’m in a mood.”

“Well, maybe this will fix it. You’re getting your wish.” His vague comment bugged me on top of all the other energy shaking through my body. “Although I’m not happy about it.”

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