Page 10 of Heartless

He really is the king of uncomfortable questions tonight. I remind myself he’s just curious and naïve to the situation, and that there was no real way for Lou to tell him delicately. Especially when it’s my business, my dad, and my problem. Honestly, I’m grateful she never told Scott about the whole situation.

And I’m not about to give him the details now.

“It was umm. It was an accident. I was twelve,” I explain flatly, trying to keep any emotion out of my voice to discourage his curiosity.

“Do you miss him?”

I could lie, I suppose. I could tell him Idomiss my dad and that he was fine, all things considered.

But I know if I even try, the words will burn my lips like acid.

“No.” I glance out of the corner of my eye at Scott, who’s still barely paying attention to me and instead has his eyes glued tothe television. “He and I didn’t get along that well. So I don’t miss him.”

“What kind of accident was it?”

That’s a question I absolutely don’t know how to answer. I could lie completely, I guess. It’s not like Scott would know, and I doubt Lou will tell him any differently. My fingers shred the napkin absently, and I look at the television as well, letting myself pay attention to the dog running from a ghost on the screen.

“A bad one,” I say finally. “It was a really…umm. Bad accident.” I cross my fingers that he’ll let it go, because that was the last truthful thing I’m willing to say about my dad.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and thankfully Scott seems satisfied with my answers as I fish it out from between the sofa cushion and me. For a second I’m sure it’s Lou, texting to make sure Scott is still alive and we haven’t done something to get us both arrested. Not that I’ve ever let him get inthatmuch trouble, truth be told.

She’s just a worrier.

But my brows raise a little in surprise at the name on top of the message, and I watch as another is sent.

Hey.Her first message is brief and vague, but she’s already sent the second by the time I open my messages.

What are you up to?Reagan’s texts are always more formal than chat-speak, and I have no idea where she learned the habit. It certainly isn’t from when I babysat her for years, since I’m much more fond of shorthand in messages.

Babysitting Scott, I reply quickly, curling my knees up to my chest.

Oh fun. You guys get pizza?

Oh yeah. With pineapple.I grin as she sends back a very unhappy face at my response. Reagan despises pineapple onpizza, and bringing it up always gives her an almost visceral reaction.

Roscoe’s bark makes me glance towards the kitchen, where the door to the fenced-in backyard is. He’s only been out twenty minutes or so, and normally I leave him out for thirty during his last time out at night. That way he gets all of his energy out, and I know he’s gone to the bathroom so I don’t have to let him out at three am.

“He probably wants to come back in,” Scott tells me, not looking away from the television. Normally he’d be the one to bounce up and run to get the Doberman, but he’s too interested in a movie he’s seen at least twice before.

Another bark seems to agree with him, and I let out a long huff and shove my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, okay,” I agree, getting to my feet. I don’t put my shoes on. Not when all I’m doing is opening the door and ushering the young dog back inside so he can stare longingly at the pizza and fall asleep to snore in Scott’s lap. He’ll most likely stay there for the next couple hours, until Scott also inevitably falls asleep on the sofa and I fireman carry him up to his room around eleven.

In the kitchen, I glance at the counters to make sure Minxy isn’t doing something she knows isn’t allowed, but she’s not on a counter or the top of the fridge. Instead, I see her thick, fluffy tail flicking back and forth on one of the chairs, and I swerve past the small breakfast nook to scratch her ears lightly. I’m met with a purr, and a pair of permanently crossed blue eyes look up at me, barely visible in the dim kitchen that’s lit only by a nightlight above the stove.

Roscoe barks again, prompting me to roll my eyes at his impatience. As if he wasn’t thrilled not long ago to be outside when he’d been bouncing at the door to be let out. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, going to the sliding glass door and pulling it open.

I expect him to come running when I whistle, but the patio remains empty except for the table and chairs. I pause, confused as hell, and Roscoe barks again from somewhere out in the big yard, past where the motion light illuminates.

“Roscoe!” I call, pitching my voice to make sure he hears me. But all I get in reply is another round of barking. “Roscoe!” Forcing my voice stern, I try again. “Get over here!”

Still nothing. I grimace, wishing I had my hoodie and shoes on, and I consider going to the living room to grab them. But…

I’m a little lazy. And surely he’ll come running if I go out into the yard and call for him. Besides, it’s just grass, and darkness, and the nipping cold of the first of October in Ohio.

“So nothing bad at all, Winnie,” I mumble, my heart picking up speed just a little in my chest. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark. Not really. But it’s certainly eerie to walk out past the patio to the sound of Roscoe’s continued, frantic barking.

I call for the dog another few times, rubbing my arms as I walk farther and farther away from the patio and the light. It feels…strange out here, I suppose is the best way to describe it. I feel watched, almost, even though there’s no one in either of the adjacent yards as far as I can tell. If there were, I would think the motion lights would be on above the privacy fences, and I’d be hearing some kind of noise.

But all I hear is Roscoe’s barking and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees Dan so carefully planted when they moved in. I normally adore his landscaping of their yard, but tonight the branches feel ominous and reaching. They obscure the moonlight above me, casting the yard into more and more shadows.

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