Page 91 of Just This Once

“Your mother...” He hesitated, a rarity for a man accustomed to control. “Your mother made the choices that determined her fate, Whip. We all moved on.”

I clenched my jaw, my hands forming fists. The room spun around me. “When she left, you mean.”

“What?” The lines on his face deepened.

“You said her choices determined her fate, but what you really meant was when she left us. Right, Dad?”

An unidentifiable emotion flickered across my father’s face—was it fear? Regret? Or something far darker?

He recovered quickly as his hand smoothed down his suit jacket, and a practiced smile played on his lips.

The room seemed to tighten around us, the air thick with unsaid words and the acrid scent of mistrust. My father’s eyes, once calculating, held a glint of discomfort. The weight of my subtle accusation hung in the air, a shadow creeping over the polished surfaces of his carefully curated life.

“Son, you’re overthinking things,” he said, his voice attempting to regain its authoritative edge. “Your mother’s choices were her own. We couldn’t control that.”

I stared at him, my gaze unwavering. “What choices, Dad?”

An unsteady pause settled in the airy workshop. The lines on my father’s face deepened, and for a moment I caught a glimpseof vulnerability—an unfamiliar crack in the facade of the all-powerful Russell King.

He cleared his throat, his eyes avoiding mine and looking around my shop. “Your mother had her reasons, Whip. You were just a child, too young to understand.”

I stepped closer, the distance between us closing like a vise. “Try me, Dad. I’m not a child anymore.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, a subtle acknowledgment that perhaps, in this moment, he couldn’t control the narrative as he always had.

“Your mother was... troubled,” he finally admitted, choosing his words carefully. “She felt trapped in this small town, in this life. It was her choice to leave and pursue something more fulfilling.”

The words were a hollow echo in the workshop, and my unease deepened. Something about his explanation felt rehearsed, as if he had recited this story many times to himself before.

I thought back to the smiling, happy face on her driver’s license.

My eyes narrowed. I was determined to get answers. “Where did she go, Dad?”

His jaw shifted as his hands tucked into his suit pants. “Back home to Detroit, I assume.”

“Why? Why would she leave her children behind? What am I missing?” Desperation leaked into my voice.

An impassive stare and deep sigh were the only answers my father was willing to give.

“When someone feels trapped, they find a way to break free,” I pressed. “But what if she didn’t leave by choice, Dad? What if something happened to her?”

His eyes darted, searching for something before a dismissive laugh huffed from his chest. “Whip, you’re letting yourimagination run wild. There’s nothing more to the story. Focus on the future, on your career. Not women who don’t matter.”

I took a step back, the suspicion growing within me. I knew he was the last person to give a straight answer, and talking to him was like arguing with a brick wall. I shook my head. “Of course, Dad. I’ll stay focused.”

But I wouldn’t forget about Mom. I was going to find out what really happened.

A sinister edge entered his gaze, a warning that I chose to ignore. “That’s what I want to hear. Just remember, some stones are better left unturned, son.”

As my father exited the workshop, leaving me alone with the weight of unanswered questions, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the legacy he spoke of carried darker secrets than I had ever imagined. My determination to uncover the truth about my mother and protect my relationship with Emily burned brighter, fueled by a growing sense of unease and suspicion toward the man who was supposed to be my father.

THIRTY-FOUR

EMILY

Still no job.

And let me tell you... trusting that this is somehow going toactuallywork out is getting really fucking old.

---