Page 91 of Home Before Dark

More silence follows. A long, tense pause made all the more unbearable by the fact that Dane is right. I couldn’t stop talking that night at the Two Pines. Because he was easy to talk to, back when I didn’t know what he’d done and what he still might be capable of doing. Now I just want to get through this trip by saying as little as possible.

Dane refuses to let that happen.

“Is this about the other night?” he says. “If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I was just responding to the vibe in the room. Otherwise I never would have suggested it. The last thing I wanted was to make this—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in prison?” I ask, unable to keep the question bottled up.

Dane doesn’t react, save for a slight clearing of this throat. He’s clearly been anticipating this moment.

“It never came up.”

“So you’re not denying it?”

“Not when it’s the truth,” Dane says. “I spent a year at Northern State Correctional. The food was bad, the company was worse, and don’t even get me started on the showers.”

The joke—not good to begin with—withers amid the strained mood inside the truck.

“And is it true you almost killed a man?” I say.

“Not intentionally.”

I think Dane expects that to make me feel better. It doesn’t.

“But you did intend to hurt him,” I reply.

“I don’t know what I intended,” Dane says, his voice strained. “Everything got out of hand. The other guy started it, okay? Not that it matters, but that’s a fact. Was I drunk? Yes. Did I go too far? Absolutely. And I regret every goddamn punch. I’ve served my time and changed my ways, but people are always going to judge me for that one awful mistake.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” I say. “Because you thought I’d judge you?”

Dane sniffs. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t if you had been honest with me. I know all too well what it feels like when people think they have you pegged. I would have understood.”

“Then why are you acting so hurt about it?”

“Only because I deserved to know. I hired you for a job, Dane.”

“So we’re just boss and employee now?”

“That’s what we’ve always been,” I say, in a voice eerily like my mother’s. I hear it—that clipped formality, the passive aggressiveness—and cringe.

“It didn’t feel that way the other night,” Dane says. “Hell, it never felt that way.”

My mother’s tone again seeps into my voice. “Well, that’s how it’s going to be now.”

“Just because you found out I was in prison?”

“No, it’s because of everything I’m dealing with right now. The Book, my father, what he might have done. I don’t need another liar in my life.”

We’ve entered Bartleby proper, the town still waking up. People emerge from their houses with sleepy expressions and steaming travel mugs of coffee. A block away, a church bell chimes out the hour—nine a.m.

Dane pulls up to the curb and gives me an impatient look. “You can get out here. Consider it my resignation. Find someone else to mess up with your daddy issues.”

I hop out of the truck without hesitation, giving Dane a mumbled “Thanks for the ride” before slamming the door and walking away.

Dane calls to me. “Maggie, wait.”

I turn around and see his head stuck out the truck’s window. A hundred thoughts seem to go through his head, all of them unspoken. In the end, he settles for a quiet, concerned “Will you need a ride back?”

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