Page 158 of Wicked Games

He said he didn’tactuallykill Caleb’s dad. But nevertheless, Mr. Asher is dead. Someone must’ve killed him, whether it was Dad and he’s trying to preserve himself, or…

Or he was framed.

But there would still have to be motive and opportunity for the District Attorney to even get Dad arrested in the first place, right? They would’ve had to have evidence pointing them toward my father.

I storm outside with my emotions all over the place. I don’t know whether to cry or go on a rampage.He killed Caleb’s dad. The why is unclear.

He pled out and got a lighter sentence thanmurder.

Voluntary manslaughter.

It sounds so…

“Margo, are you okay?” Robert meets me halfway across the parking lot.

I fall into his arms, and a sob erupts out of my chest before I can stop it. Seeing my dad brings out all the ugly emotions that come with abandonment.

Fear. Longing.

Why am I not good enough?

Why didn’t you want to see me?

Robert hugs me tightly, with one hand pressed against the back of my head. “Shh, honey, it’s okay.”

His other hand rubs small circles on my back.

I hugged Dad and it felt like home. I can’t help but think that moment will forever be tainted by bars on the windows and confessions whispered in my ear.

Caleb knew I was going to come out of there as a different person. Did he know what my dad did? Of course he did! His own was killed, and he’s faithfully withheld that secret.

Why didn’t he tell me?

And it begs another question: what else hasn’t he said?

I can’t breathe over the lump in my throat. My whole face is on fire with embarrassment, shock. I slowly loosen my grip on Robert’s jacket, but I don’t release him entirely. I tuck my face against his chest and try to get a hold of myself.

This is fucking embarrassing.

I need to talk to Caleb.

He knows more—I know he does.

This ties into his family and my family.

My mind can’t grip reality. I’m furious and sad and overwhelmed, like a tornado of feelings that refuse to unknot.

“Breathe,” Robert reminds me. “It’s okay. What happened?”

I take a shaky breath. When I lean away, I’m ashamed of the tear stains on his jacket.

“I just…” I can’t immediately accept the truth, which means I can’t say it out loud either. “It was a lot.”

He guides me to his car, tucking me into the passenger seat then circling around. I watch him pass the front of the hood, bundled against the cold. He climbs in and turns on the car, and we sit there for a moment until the air gets warm.

It must’ve started snowing while I was inside. It falls thick and heavy now.

“Let’s go home,” I beg. “I could use a cup of hot chocolate.”

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