Page 4 of Manic

A few passersby slow down, casting curious glances our way.

I know I should lower my voice, should try to de-escalate the situation.

But years of pent-up anger and pain are bubbling to the surface, and I can't seem to stop.

I left Tallahassee to get away from him.

I left so much behind.

"You're making a scene, kiddo," he says, his eyes darting around. "Why don't we go somewhere more private and talk this out?"

A chill runs down my spine at the thought of being alone with him. "Not a chance in hell. I'm done talking to you. I'm done with you, period. Now get out of my way."

I try to push past him, but he grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "You listen to me, you little?—"

"Let. Go. Of. Me." I enunciate each word clearly, staring him down.

I won't let him see how terrified I am, how my heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst out of my chest.

For a long moment, we stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills.

Then, slowly, he releases his grip on my arm.

But it’s only for a split second.

The sting of his slap burns across my cheek, the sound echoing in my ears as I stumble backward.

My hand instinctively rises to my face, feeling the heat radiating from where he struck me.

Passersby gasp and murmur, their shocked faces a blur in my peripheral vision.

I straighten my spine, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Go to hell," I spit out, tasting blood where my teeth cut into my cheek.

My mind races, memories flooding back of all the reasons I fled Tallahassee, all the nightmares that kept me from returning to Tor.

Fifteen years of running, of building a life far from my father’s reach, all undone in a single moment.

"Now, now." He chuckles, stepping closer. "Is that any way to talk to your father?"

I flinch involuntarily, hating myself for the weakness. "You're not my father," I hiss. "You're nothing to me."

But even as I say the words, I realize the lie in them.

He's still everything—every fear, every sleepless night, every reason I kept my daughter from knowing her real family.

And now he's here, in Atlanta, shattering the illusion of safety I've carefully constructed.

I try to mask the panic rising in my chest. "Leave me alone," I spit out, turning on my heel. "And stay the hell away from me."

I walk away quickly, my heart pounding.

The image of my daughter's face flashes through my mind, and I feel sick at the thought of my father anywhere near her.

I need to get home, need to get far away from him.

But as I hurry down the sidewalk, the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps follows me.

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