Page 170 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Son.” My father sounds tired when he speaks, and I turn with my mother still in my arms to face him at the entrance to his study. “A word, please.”

I don’t move, neither does he, and if not for my mother telling me to go, I probably wouldn’t have.

“Don’t be so hard on your father,” she rasps, and I snap my head to face her. At my deep frown, she says. “It’s okay. Everything is okay. As long as I have your father, it’ll be all right. I promise, baby.”

There seems to be so much unsaid in her message, but there’s more I need to know—more that only my father can clarify.

I lean down and kiss her on her forehead. “All right, Shorty. I’ll see you in a second and you can tell me what’s really going on.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t seem to reach her deadened eyes.

When I enter my father’s office, the first thing that strikes me is the chaos. Papers scattered all across his desk, and his rolling chair is pushed to the corner, almost as if someone kicked it over there. Stacks of files nearly half my height make landmines around the room, and next to the small metal trash can is a computer monitor.

The screen is cracked, punched in.

“Dad?” For some reason, my voice is unsteady—maybe because I’m exhausted, or maybe it’s something else. Something that’s a hell of a lot like fear.

Dad continues to walk around the room, picking up what seems like random items and stuffing them into a cardboard box.

His head snaps up as if he were waiting for me to speak to stop his search.

And it does look like maybe he’s searching for something.

“Storm. It’s so good you stopped by. I was hopeful we’d be able to find you before we left, but I didn’t have high hopes. I guess God really does give us what we need when we need it.”

That’s not cryptic at all.

“What’s going on, Dad? Where are you going, and why are you leaving?”

Dad just laughs, and I search for reasons.

“Is it…is it the FBI again?” Axel said they have nothing on my dad, but who knows what’s true. “Or is it something else?”

Or someone else.

“The FBI? Nah, they’re not worried about me.”

“That’s a good thing. Right?”

He chuckles again. “One would think, yes?” He picks up a file and flips through it. “One would think.”

The file slips from his hand and lands on the paper-covered carpet, fluttering open and spreading its contents on the already littered floor.

“It’s Lakeland, isn’t it?” I ask, but Dad doesn’t respond. “He’s threatening you, running you to do all this fucked up shit. Isn’t he?”

More silence.

“I know about the island. The people.” His eyes flare, and he takes a step back, resting against the low set of shelves that house images of our family on vacations around the globe.

“Dad, let me help yo?—”

“Stop!” he snaps, rocketing a picture frame into the wall. Glass rains down as the gold frame shatters, and a photo floats to the floor like a feather.

“Just stop before you hurt yourself. It’s done. Finished.” The resulting silence is louder than his outburst.

“You’re running,” I say quietly. “Aren’t you?”

He meets my gaze. “I’m making space.”

---