Page 89 of High Velocity

“No, I wouldn’t. And not because they have a dick, but because I’m not in-fucking-love with a guy. How could you even ask me to sit this one out after what we went through less than two weeks ago?”

I already had my mouth open to fire off the next retort but quickly shut it and swallow my words. I’m being a hypocrite; if the roles were reversed, I likely wouldn’t let him go in alone either.

“Okay.”

His head pivots around at my rather abrupt capitulation to an argument we’ve been waging off and on since we left Grand Rapids earlier.

“Seriously?”

It’s my turn to shrug, and I do it with a smirk. “What can I say? You finally made a solid point.”

He doesn’t seem amused at my attempt to lighten the mood.

A moment later I don’t think it’s funny anymore either, as he pulls up in front of my old house.

What once was a source of pride, a facade of respectability and standing, has become an eyesore. A lawn that is so badly overgrown, you can barely see what used to be perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges my father meticulously maintained. Paint is peeling from the columns of the porch and off the window frames. The porch deck is buckling with moisture and rot. Even the mailbox beside the front door is hanging lopsided, held up by only one screw.

The place looks abandoned, and for a brief moment I wonder if perhaps he’s no longer here after all. But then I notice his old Mercury Grand Marquis, still parked in front of the garage, although it looks like it hasn’t moved from there in a while, with weeds sprouting up around the tires.

“Wow. Someone doesn’t like yard work,” Jackson observes. “Is that normal?”

I shake my head and am about to say no, but then I reconsider. I haven’t been back here in over a decade. Who knows what constitutes normal anymore?

“I couldn’t really tell you.”

Jackson

I can feel the heavy anticipation coming off Stephanie in waves as we approach the house.

I’d like to hold her hand, give her some physical support, but I know better than to touch her. I’m sure it’s taking all her resolve and strength to hold her head high like that and walk straight up to that door. I’ll just hang back and be prepared to do damage control as needed.

The only thing that doesn’t sit well with me is the fact I ended up not being straightforward with Jonas and my mother about our reason for coming here. Not that I had to lie outright, but staying purposely vague about the reason for the visit felt deceitful nonetheless.

Stephanie tries the doorbell first, but when that doesn’t work, resorts to knocking on the door.

A voice booms from inside.

“Jesus Christ, Mabel! The door’s open like it always is!”

Stephanie throws me a look over her shoulder—maybe to reassure herself I’m still here—before pushing open the door and entering the house.

I was prepared for bad odors and decay in here too, but other than a mild musty smell and faded wallpaper, the interior of the house looks neat as a pin.

“Mabel?”

At the back of the house a wheelchair rolls into view, the stooped figure of a man staring down the hallway at us. Half his face droops and his clothes hang off his body.

Stephanie inhales sharply and steps back into my body. I place a hand on her hip to steady her.

“Dad?”

From what I heard of her father, I’d pictured him strong and unyielding, not this wisp of a man a stiff wind could blow away. His voice still holds power when he recognizes his daughter.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Stephanie visibly collects herself before addressing her father.

“I wanted to see you.”

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