Page 13 of Look how well You take this C*ck

Sitting at the table where she set out a sandwich and a cut-up orange on a plate with a glass of raspberry sweet tea, I take the chance to enjoy being taken care of. I fight back my emotions because I’m already on overload and fail miserably.

The next thing I know, Clara pulls me into a tight hug as she speaks soothingly. “Oh darling, you just can’t catch a break, can you.” She pulls back to look at my tear-stained face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Which part, I want to ask caustically.

“My mom was like you.” She gives me a blinding smile as she takes my statement as a compliment. “I’ve just missed her and didn’t realize how much until I came here.”

“Oh, Ellie, I am so sorry you’ve had so much heartbreak in such a short lifespan. It’s just not fair to you.” She squeezes my hands, showing me the support I hadn’t realized I’d needed for so long.

“She was the only one who ever truly loved me, and I sometimes wish it had been my father who died in that accident and not her.” The puzzled look on Clara’s face makes me regret my words. “That’s terrible to say, isn’t it?”

It takes her a minute to respond, and I fight not to run away. “It’s not terrible, but Ellie, who said your mom was in an accident?”

“My dad.”

“Oh, honey…Ellie. Your father was the one who killed her. That’s why you were in the system when you were younger. He was on trial for her murder.” All the air gets siphoned from my lungs, and I feel like I’ve been sucker punched.

“What?” I hiss with a short breath.

That can’t be right. I remember they had a tough time finding him. The social worker told me so every time I asked. I was told he had to go through parenting classes and background checks and a million loops just to visit me. When he finally gained custody, we immediately moved to Florida from Nevada. Away from everything I’d known and loved. Away from Mom. It hurt at the time, but I couldn’t do anything about it.

“Yes. He was arrested days after it happened. The trial occurred quickly because he was a flight risk, and the DA didn’t have enough to keep him remanded. It was supposedly a stroke of luck on his part that he wasn’t convicted.”

“But…” My brows furrow. “No, she was in a car accident. A drunk driver hit her on the highway at the end of a girls' weekend. Everyone told me so.” Standing abruptly, my chair topples over and slams against the tiled floor. “You’re wrong; you’re lying!” I scream at Clara, running up to my room to grab my bag with everything I need in it before bolting out of the house and heading to the beach.

She’s wrong.

My father didn’t kill my mother.

It’s a lie.

Except…

There are things that don’t make sense anymore. Things I didn’t understand at the time. My father on the news, and the channel being shut off quickly. Comments I would overhear the adults around me making about being behind bars. The excuses about why I couldn’t see him. There was no time left that week; he needed approval first… Things I thought were related to me but now make more sense in relation to him being in prison.

The real question now is, why wasn’t he convicted back then?

CHAPTER 9

Lars

This past week has been a shit show of interviews, compiling evidence, filling out paperwork, and more I’ve not wanted to do. With everything going on, I haven’t had the chance to reach out to Ellie to explain what happened with Damon’s mom and why I had to let her go that day.

I’ve barely slept and have neglected so many duties because I want to get things wrapped up with her father’s case so I can claim her without any interference from the department.

“He wants to speak with you,” Reed Burkhart, one of my more senior detectives, pops in to tell me. “In fact, he’s demanding it before he speaks to the DA again.”

“Why me?”

Powering down my computer and putting away the file I was re-reading in a locked drawer, I follow Reed out.

“Probably because you’re the arresting officer on the reports,” Reed replies as we reach the interview room. “I’ll watch from the observation.” He goes through the other door, disappearing from view.

Turning the knob, I enter, dismissing the officer on guard as I take a seat at the table across from Kevin Dawson–the man who took care of my future wife for so many years. The man who killed her mother.

Crossing my arms, I sit back, giving the appearance of indifference as I wait for him to speak. He looks older now. Prison tends to do that to a person.

“I want to see her,” he says.

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