Page 39 of Where He Ended

“Then why?” I snap.

His smile is pained. “To keep me from vanishing again.”

At the time I'd been flooded with empathy towards him. With the adoration only a daughter can feel when her father is suffering. But thinking back over his haunted eyes and his bitter sadness, I wonder if he wasn't as sorry about what was going to happen as he should have been.

All of his sorrow had been for him.

Not me.

Not Kara.

Not his family.

Just him.

Stepping down, I wander through the leaves. I kick a few, turning slowly, unsure what to do with myself. Dominic watches me from the doorway. “Well,” I say, my smile frail, “this is it. My home. What do you think? Is it as cozy as I made it sound? Did my fighting every single day to return here make sense, now?” My voice is too high. I'm struggling to seem happy and failing at it spectacularly.

He comes closer, moving at a snail's pace. “Laiken . . .”

“Don't say it. I know. This place is a mess, and we're going to find nothing here. It was pointless to come.”

Pointless.

Like believing in my father.

He circles me in his thick arms, crushing me against him until all my knots and barbs melt away. “Did you know,” he murmurs, “that I've never been camping?”

“What?” I ask, blinking.

He talks against my scalp, making my skin tingle. “I've been on trips to different places, and I've done my share of outdoor work, but I've never once been this far out in the middle of all these trees and this silence. It's nice. Peaceful.” Tilting my head towards him, he kisses my eyebrow. “I see exactly why you loved it here.”

My heart beats louder, as if it wants Dominic to hear it. “Thanks,” I say, leaning into him, enjoying his solid strength. “I really don't think he left any clues for me here, though.”

“We've barely searched.” Untangling from me, he eyes the pile of wood. Walking over to it, he brushes leaves away. “Some of these are under a tarp. Should be dry. Do you know if there's a lighter in the house?”

“You want to make a fire?”

Nodding, he bends down, pulling out an ax from beneath the tarp. Amazingly, the weather hasn't reached it; the head looking sharp and rust free. He claps the handle into his palm, checking the weight with a satisfied smile. “We'd be better off spending the night at this rate. If we get a fire going inside, it'll be all right. I mean, if that sounds okay with you.”

“It sounds great,” I say, laughing. “Let me go find some matches, I know where Dad kept everything for the fireplace.”

“No rush. I'll chop some of these to make them smaller, you search the house for clues while you're collecting things.”

“Deal.” Backing up, I take a second to observe him in his heavy coat with the ax in his grip. If this is really his first time in the middle of the woods, he's doing a good job looking natural in the environment.

I leave him there and go inside. After I find a box of matches and some old newspapers for kindling, I set them by the fireplace and start searching the cabin more carefully. The stale smell of mold grows stronger the longer I'm inside. Water has definitely ruined a lot of this place, and repairs will take time. I create a mental list about the things I'll need to do to make the cabin hospitable again.

Iknowwe're not staying. But I have every intention to come back when I can.

My hope is that next time will be permanent.

Mom and Dad didn't take much with them when they left. There are boxes of dried food in the pantry, most of it moldy, the rest chewed up by mice. Water runs when I try the sinks, but I'm nervous at the color. At the very least, dirt has leeched into the pipes.

Disgruntled by discovering no secret—or obvious—messages from my father, I head out to the backyard. Grunts, heavy breathing, and solidclunksreach my ears. Cracking the door, I enjoy a helplessly sharp inhale.

Dominic is shirtless in spite of the cold. His breath is visible in the air, sweat clinging to his rippling arms as he swings the ax again and again. He's chopped multiple logs into manageable chunks. It's way more than we need for a single night.

Propping myself against the side of the cabin, I cross my arms and enjoy the view. His ink shifts as he swings, creating a beautiful, moving scene as the art comes to life. As much as I miss the sweet boy Dominic used to be, I can't deny he's improved, in a few ways.

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