Page 2 of Open Secrets
“Tomorrow’s Friday.”
Behind me, Daddy cut in, voice low and sharp: “Today is Friday.”
Heat rushed up my neck. “Well, fuck.”
“Language.” Daddy’s tone cracked like a whip.
“Sorry,” I muttered, though I wasn’t.
The air went thick. I was standing there in a faded T-shirt and shorts, weighing whether I could risk leaving Lyle with Daddy long enough to change.
Turns out I didn’t get the choice.
“Why don’t you put on some real clothes while we talk,” Daddy said, smooth as a knife.
My mouth opened, but Lyle beat me to it. “Yes, sir. I’ll wait for you, Maria.” His words were crisp, practiced.
And to my horror, he followed Daddy into the living room.
I bolted upstairs, heart hammering like I’d just robbed a bank.
Up in my room, I tore through my closet, tossing clothes onto the floor. Everything looked wrong. Too girly. Too plain. Too much skin. Not enough.
I could practically hear Daddy downstairs:So, Lyle, what are your intentions with my daughter?
Poor boy was probably getting ready to bolt.
I yanked on a sundress that smelled faintly of dryer sheets, hands fumbling with the zipper. My reflection looked flushed, hair a mess. I swiped on lip gloss, hated it, wiped half of it off with the back of my hand.
Silence pressed in. Too much silence. No voices, no footsteps. My stomach twisted. Either Daddy was grilling him so bad he couldn’t answer, or worse, they’d found common ground.
Then the crack split the air. Sharp, unmistakable — gunfire.
“Shit.” My hands slipped on the zipper. I stumbled forward, half running, half falling down the stairs.
I slammed through the back door, ready to drag Lyle’s corpse inside.
Instead, I found something worse.
Daddy and Lyle stood shoulder to shoulder, laughing like old friends. Lyle held one of Daddy’s rifles like he’d been born with it. His stance was steady, aim clean.
“Darlin’,” Daddy called, grinning wide, “this here’s a good one.”
And Lyle? He beamed like he’d just passed the final test.
I cleared my throat, plastered on a smile sharp enough to cut. “Alright, let’s go,” I snapped before Daddy could change his mind and shoot him after all.
Lyle handed the rifle back easy, polite as can be. “Thank you, sir.”
Then he jogged to catch me, practically glowing.
I kept walking, fast, eyes forward. If I looked back, I might see Daddy winking. And I wasn’t ready for that.
At the car, Lyle hurried to open the passenger door for me, grinning like it was a movie scene. I rolled my eyes but slid in anyway.
The car was nothing special — a sun-faded Ford Taurus with a cracked dash and the smell of gas and old fries baked into the seats. Half the parents in town drove one just like it, every single one on its last leg.
He shut my door gently, jogged around, and dropped behind the wheel. “I just bought this,” he said, patting the dash. “Good deal, too.”
