Page 105 of The Devil's Den

We’re now right in front of the door, and my hand hovers as I try to knock. Matteo does it for me instead. “I’ve got you,” he assures once more, and it’s as though the reassurance gives me the courage I need.

Closing my eyes, I take in a single long breath, and I look back at the door, the sound of faint footsteps getting closer until the door opens. A woman with short brown hair and matching eyes greets us with a curious smile.

Who the hell is that?

“Hi there!” she chirps brightly, a set of white teeth on display. “May I help you?”

“Um—I—ahh. Never mind,” I fluster, turning back around.

“Baby,” Matteo calls softly, a hand gently grazing my shoulder.

With a defeated sigh, I pivot, my mouth bending in a smile that probably looks like it belongs on a crazy woman.

“Is Clark available?” Matteo asks.

She observes us intriguingly. “Who may I say is asking?”

“Mom, who’s there?” someone calls, and a young boy is suddenly there. He appears older than Robby, probably by a few years, and his eyes are like mine—like Dad’s.

Oh crap. This is his new family.

“Um, you know what, never mind.” I shake my head, my eyes going downcast to try and hide the tears that have already come.

“Oh my God,” the woman whispers, her voice full of bewilderment. “You’re…you’re her, aren’t you?”

Her eyes round, a hand flying to her mouth. The shock on her face has her staring at me so hard, my body breaks into a wave of tingles.

“Clark!” she yells. “Clark, get over here. Right now.”

“What’s wrong, Emma?” A male voice drifts over. “Can a man eat?” And the way he says that, it’s not with anger, it’s with jest.

He loves her. He’s forgotten us.

“Just get over here!” She can’t separate her eyes from me, like a deer in the headlights.

“I’m here, honey.” He shows up right behind her, looking at me, then Matteo.

That’s my father. Oh God.

Grief plants itself into my heart and I rub at the pain. How different would I be if I were raised by him?

“Who are you folks?” he finally asks, scratching the side of his light brown hair, sprinkled with a bit of gray. There is kindness written all over his face. You can practically feel it. “Because whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buyin’, unless you got some fishing hooks, I do need some of those.” There’s a twinkle in his gaze and I can’t stop staring.

Emma doesn’t say a word as she slowly pivots her head to him. When he sees her expression, he stares deeply at her for a second, before he drifts his attention back to us.

“Who—who are you?” His stare narrows. But then he prods past her, nearing me, his head tilting sideways, and his tears form hard and fast, like a puddle growing larger from the sudden pouring of the sky.

“No…” he whispers, stumbling back, and Emma is there, her hand on his shoulder. “A-Aida? God. No. It can’t be. After all this… Is this real?”

I pant, wetness coating the rims of my lower lashes as I nod, breaking into a silent sob. “It’s me, Dad.”

“Aida!” he cries. In a flash, he clasps me in his arms and holds me as we both cry. For minutes. For hours. I don’t know. Right now, it doesn’t matter because I found my father and he’s never forgotten me after all.

* * *

We’re actually here. In mydad’shome. I have a father. A real one. A kind one. The shock will take a while to wear off.

“This was when you were one and started walking,” he explains, twenty minutes later, opening a photo album he’s kept with photos of us. Mom, me—our family. We seemed so happy. I swipe a tear from my eye, grinning as I look at every single picture.

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