Page 98 of Eight Second Hearts

But me? I’m sitting at this goddamned park, staring at a bronze statue of a man I hate but have never met.

Not like the man who appears and sits beside me. I know him. I used to know him.

“Xin gan,” he says, looking at the statue, too.

I sigh. “Bá ba.”

For long minutes, we don’t say anything, both of us resting in silence. I’m not sure what to say, what I can say, to make this better, but I realize quickly it’s not my words that’ll make things better. It’s whatever words he can say right now. It’s all on him.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the envelope. He looks down at my hand as I hold it out to him. I’d never opened it, never read whatever it was he was trying to tell me from prison or from who knows where. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Carefully, he reaches out and takes it from me before balling it up in his fist.

“I know you’re disappointed in me,” he says softly, the soft accent in his voice so familiar to me, it brings tears to my eyes. I don’t have his accent. I grew up among people in Arizona, and Mom and Dad never taught me Mandarin fully, so I’d fit in better. I’m not fluent, but I know enough to make do. They were always so scared I wouldn’t fit in.

I don’t. Not in the way they wanted me to. But that’s okay.

“Disappointed may be an understatement,” I admit, finally looking over at him.

He nods, sadness in his eyes. “I understand. You have every right to be mad?—”

“I’m not. . .” I blow out a puff of air. “I’m not mad at you, Dad. I used to be, back before I left the first time.” I shrug, my eyes flicking over to Tripp. “But what is home if not the first place you run from, right?”

Dad winces. “I hope you can forgive me for all I’ve done. I never wanted you to be involved in all this. I tried my best to keep you separate all these years, but you have a way of finding yourself in the thick of things, and you stumbled into this life somehow anyway. I ended up pulling you into it regardless.”

“I forgive you,” I whisper, staring at him. “But. . . I can’t accept the path you’re choosing. If you remain with the Crows, this will be the last time we speak as father and daughter.”

His face pinches with pain. “I’m so sorry for how much I’ve hurt you.”

I smile gently at him, not because of what he says, but because this is still my dad. This is still the man I grew up with, and it’s hard to separate the two truths from each other. “I miss the dad who used to sing me to sleep,” I say. “What happened to him?”

He looks back at the statue, avoiding my eyes. “He died with your mother,” he whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear. He takes a deep, heavy breath, as if he’s coming to terms with his next words. When he looks at me next, the pain is wiped from his face. “No matter what happens from here, Indie, I hope you know I’ve always been proud of you.” He stands and touches his hand to my cheek. I don’t pull away. Instead, I lean into my father’s touch, desperate for one last connection to the man heused to be. “How could I not be?” he murmurs. “You’re so much like your mother.”

He pulls his hand away, and there’s a finality to it that spears into my chest. Tears flicker in my eyes as he turns and walks away, his hands in his pockets, no emotion in his eyes. As if he was able to flick the light switch off.

For me, it’s not so easy.

Tripp comes and takes a seat next to me, before wrapping me in his arms. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice shaky. “No, actually, but I will be. It’ll just take time.”

He nods. “I understand. More than you know.” He presses a kiss against my forehead. “The nursing home came and picked up Dad today. Darla said he nearly took one of the transporters out, but she’d put up the gun before they got there. She still doesn’t know how he managed to get it out of the safe.”

“How do you feel about that?” I ask, looking into his eyes.

“Relief,” he replies and then winces. “Guilt. A whole lot of other things.” He shakes his head. “Part of me wishes he’d just die, but then what kind of man does that make me?”

“A human one,” I say, cupping his cheek. “A very human one.”

My phone rings, the sound loud in the quiet park, and I pull it from my pocket and groan. Yeah. I’ve been waiting for this call.

I hit the green button and hold it up to my ear. “Hey, Frank,” I say. “I’ve been expecting your phone call.”

“Which means you should have already called me,” Frank grumbles. “The boss shouldn’t have to be calling you.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “There’s been a lot going on here in?—”

“Did you get that interview or not?” he interrupts.

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