Page 66 of Wicche Hunt

Furious, he glared at me, but I knew the anger was directed at Mom, at Gran, at whoever had kept yet another secret.

“Bracken, no one kept her existence from you. We were trying—”

His fist hit the table. “My child has been missing for twenty-two years. I have agonized for—and all this time you hid the one person who could have told me if he was dead or alive. The hole in me…” He swallowed and then stalked to the door, flung it open, causing more glass to shower the floor, and went around the side of the building.

Mom patted my shoulder. “I can ask John to drive you home. I need to wait for the appraiser.”

“Mom.” I gestured to the open door.

“I know. More glass, but I can explain that to the insurance person.” Her phone rang and she answered it.

I, on the other hand, grabbed my backpack and went after Bracken. I found him pacing and muttering in the parking lot next to a fancy, streamline RV. “…and they wonder why there are so many sorcerers in this family when…”

“Can I ask you a question?” I shouldered the backpack.

The muttering wound down and he stopped his pacing, waiting for me.

“I was told a couple of weeks ago about your wife taking your son and leaving. Gran thought you might be willing to help us with Calliope if I talked your son into contacting you.”

Face hardened, he stood silently.

“I told them I wouldn’t because I’d been told you were an abusive drunk.”

He blinked, the color draining from his face.

“I refused to talk a victim into reuniting with his abuser, no matter how much they said we needed you.” My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I silenced it with a thought.

“I was never abusive,” he finally said.

“Would your wife and son agree with that?”

Shoulders slumping, he walked back to the RV. “I loved them but—you see what I’m like. I tried to mask it, to shut myself away in my office when the chaos was too much. I tried explaining, but she didn’t understand. She said she did, but she didn’t. She thought it was a sign of weakness to lose control of my own mind. I agreed, but I couldn’t fix myself. I spent more and more time locked away. I wasn’t a drunk, but I did try using alcohol to numb my brain. I wanted to be with them, to sleep with my wife and play with my child, but the house was disordered. The alcohol didn’t help me not see it, so that was a failed experiment.”

He rubbed his forehead. “While they slept, I cleaned and put everything back to rights. If I could impose order, calm my thoughts, I hoped to spend time with my family, but then morning came and there were shouts and squeals and toys appearing and questions about food and pots and pans clanking and spilled drinks and…and I moved back into my study, into the quiet and order.”

He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his handkerchief. “Did I ever yell? Yes. But never in anger. I was trying to talk over the screaming in my head. I hadn’t realized I was yelling until I saw I’d frightened them, that they were clinging to each other, eyes big as they stared at me.”

“I’m sorry.” I knew exactly what it was like to desperately try to mask your true self.

Heartbroken, he nodded. “Me too.”

I moved closer. “Would you like me to look for him?”

“Yes.”

“Is this yours?” I pointed to the RV.

Nodding, he patted his pockets, unlocked the door, and held it open for me.

“Arwyn? Can you come back?” Mom called.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” I said, stepping up into his home on wheels. Neat as a pin, it looked like a demonstration model. “This is really nice.” Granted, I’d never been in an RV before, but I hadn’t expected them to look so cozy and apartment-ish.

There were two big leather captain chairs for the driver and copilot at the front, but the living area was beautiful. A wingback reading chair and ottoman in a tufted green leather sat under an antique lamp. There were compact coffee and side tables in a warm dark wood and under the window across from the chair, a matching green leather bench butted up against bookcases. All the way down the length of the RV on one side were glass-fronted mahogany bookcases with latches at the handles.

“Is that how you keep the books from falling when you drive?”

He nodded. “That and a spell.” Floor to ceiling, the shelves were filled with books of every age and condition. In fact, he’d begun to double shelve.

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