Page 3 of The Monster I Loved
“Drunk driving is so reckless,” Daisy said, looking up at the TV. “Even then, if only the driver stopped, who knows if Gina might still be alive.”
My chest tightened. “Exactly!” It made me so angry that the killer was out there, living scot-free, while Thad was being tortured by the loss of his mom. I hadn’t seen him smile since the police officer knocked on the door. Not once.
Daisy nodded, acknowledging my answer, but continued to flick through the magazine. I should tell her to stop; that I wasn’t in the mood for wedding planning. How could I be planning our future together when Thad was so unhappy? He’d insisted that I continue planning our wedding. Hell, he’d bought me the magazines, but this didn’t feel right.
“The right side of this car should have a pretty big dent,” the officer on TV explained. “More than likely, there is also blood onthe vehicle. If you know anyone who drives a 2003 Ford Ranger XLT SuperCab, in any shade of red, please check out their truck and give us a call.”
His description made me jump to my feet. That was the brand and color of the truck my dad drove.
I hadn’t seen him drive it in a while.
I racked my brain for an exact date, but I wasn’t sure. Had the truck been in the garage since that night?
“Oh God, no,” I said aloud. The world started spinning.It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t be, I repeated in my mind. It couldn’t be my dad. It just couldn’t. But what were the chances of somebody else in the area having the exact same truck? My chest tightened as the last couple of weeks played like a reel inside my mind. I called the other driver akiller.
Amonster.
The person who sat behind the wheel that tore apart a family, that destroyed myfiancé, could be my own blood.
This is a nightmare. This can’t be real.
Daisy was on her feet. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Dad.” Even with the name coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe it. There was no way. My dad knew Gina Fitzgerald, and even if he’d hit her, he wouldn’t leave her lying there to die. He couldn’t.
Tired of waiting, Daisy squeezed my shoulder gently. “Summer, what about your dad?”
There was no time to explain. I ran out of the room and beelined straight to the garage. I flipped the switch, and my stomach fell.
A tarp covered the truck.Who covers a vehicle inside the garage?My dad had never once protected his truck in all the years he’d owned it.
Daisy stepped beside me and looked from my face to the truck. “Wait, you don’t think...” Her skin slowly paled before me.
Not bothering to answer, I stepped further into the garage, took a deep breath, and yanked the tarp off the frame.
Thaddeus
I wokeup in my cell feeling nothing. You’d think leaving prison would be enough to make me crack a smile, but no such luck. Prison bars may no longer keep me confined, but I’d never truly be free because I was a motherless son. Money could buy a lot, but it could never bring her back. My thirteen-year sentence (commuted to ten, including time served while I waited to go to trial), even though I shot a man in cold blood, was proof of how powerful money could be. Hell, they only charged me with manslaughter. Though the justice system said my debt was paid in full, I knew many in my hometown thought differently.
I collected my meager belongings and shuffled out of the prison. There was no fanfare. No excitement. I walked away from myhomeof ten years toward the waiting SUV. As I passed a trash can, I hurled my bag into it. I didn’t need a single memento of my stay.
As I got closer to the vehicle, Aston climbed out. He hadn’t changed a bit, other than the salt and pepper sprinkled in the hair surrounding his temples and in his mustache. “Mr. Fitzgerald, welcome back.” He grinned.
Seeing him didn’t shock me. My father would never waste his time on me. With my mother gone, and my sister off at college, only Aston—an employee—could pick me up.
“It is good to be back,” I said, then patted his shoulder before sliding into the back seat, savoring the feel of leather.
For the last ten years, all I’d seen were prison walls, and all I’d felt were hard chairs and a lumpy mattress. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the window. Trees flew past as we navigated the winding roads. Some had lost all their leaves; others pathetically held on to a few.
Some people, a lot of people, thoughtIwas pathetic.
It was a word I’d heard a few times while incarcerated. ‘Poor little rich White boy,’ I often got.
On the surface, I had everything a kid could have wanted growing up. I’d heard the murmurs, the whispers, about what must have gone wrong to end up there. I wasn’t shy about telling my story.
Seconds into my explanation, they all said something along the same lines: “You deserve a medal.”
A piece of shit kills my mother, leaves her to die, and the courts were looking at misdemeanor vehicular homicide, not a felony. They wanted to cut a deal with the bastard. Hell no. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
