Page 327 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

Angel Falls Cemetery

Don’t be late.

I lock my phone and toss it on the passenger seat. My eyes slide to the clock on my dash. I thought I would have more time, but I woke up late, and it took me a while to get my head straight.

I push down harder on the gas, opening up the Mustang’s engine. It tears down the freeway as my heart starts a slow th-thump in my chest.

We need to talk?Well that suits me just fine, because I have some questions for him.

Angel Falls Cemetery, poetically, is set in the small valley of Devil’s Creek. At the entrance to the cemetery, you can see a few yards of the wispy waterfall that gives this area its name. However, the craggy creek it plummets into is hidden—accessible only by hiking down a steep ravine lined in pitch black rock.

Massive oak trees litter the cemetery, throwing dappled shade over the paved road my Mustang skims over as I head deeper inside.

I only come here once a year with Dad, and nothing much has changed since the last time. The leaves have only just started changing color, and it’s a mess of green and orange out here.

And gray, of course.

Row upon row of concrete slabs and sad, pouting angels.

I park behind my father’s pearl-white Mercedes and take a second to drag myself together before climbing out.

“You’re late,” he says, as soon as I’m in earshot, but with his back still facing me.

“Was busy.”

I expect a reprimand, but he says nothing. He’s wearing a black-on-black suit, his hair slicked back, hands clasped behind his back. This could have been a replay from last year’s visit, until he turns to face me.

His blue eyes pierce through me like a spear, rooting me to the spot.

“What?” I ask, my voice too soft, too unsteady.

“Do I not give you enough, son?” There’s open contempt on his words when his sneer could have sufficed to convey his disgust.

“I…what are you talking about?” I’d been gearing up for some of his usual sentimental drivel about my mother, not a full-on confrontation.

“Is it drugs?” He steps closer. I wish I could move back, because I’ve never felt such venomous anger flowing from him before.

“Dad, I don’t know what you’re?—”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I’m that fucking obtuse?” He doesn’t raise his voice, not even a little, because he doesn’t have to. I’m fucking terrified, and I still don’t know why he’s angry with me.

I lift my hands, palms facing him. That, at least, stops his slow advance. But it does nothing to the set of his mouth or the righteous indignation glaring in his eyes.

“Couldn’t figure it out, even when I did it right in front of you, could you?”

Finally, my scrambling brain finds purchase. “The safe?” I blurt out. I wave my hands. “Dad, no, I have the money. All of it.” I stab a thumb over my shoulder. “It’s in my?—”

“Did he promise you a cut?” My father lifts his chin, hands still clasped behind his back for all the world like he’s having an idle chat with his son.

If you didn’t take into account his eyes, of course.

“Who?”

“That Baker boy. And don’t tell me he didn’t have anything to do with this. I know it’s him. It’s always been him!”

Now my head’s fucking spinning again. “Dad, please. I have the money from the safe. I can give it to you right now.”

My father cocks his head. “And the files? All my clients’s information? Do you also happen to have that in your car?” Sarcasm drips from every word. His face contorts into mock concern. “I’m assuming you haven’t made any copies, of course?”

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