Page 29 of Among the Sins of my Father

“Take me to your father,” I demand.

She looks at Jericho instead of me, searching his expression for an explanation of my demand.

“Berkley,” he says, striding over to her. His hand hovers protectively. I know he wants to reach out and touch her but for whatever reason, he’s hesitant around me. He should know better. “Don’t listen to her, she’s—”

“You know the code, don’t you?” I demand, talking over Jericho.

She nods dumbly.

“Then take me to see him.”

“Why can’t Jericho?”

“He refused. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t?” She turns to him with those stupidly innocent eyes of hers. The ones that remind me of her father even though his don’t hold an ounce of innocence. The ones that are gray and blue and green all at the same time.

“She hasn’t been back long. She doesn’t need—”

“Stop telling me what I do and do not need!” My hands clench into fists at my side. I turn to Berkley, trying to control the rage that shudders through me. “You owe me this.”

“She doesn’t owe you anything,” Jericho snaps back.

But I know I’ve won by the way Berkley’s head drops. She feels the weight of her father’s sins. I can exploit that.

“She’s right, Jericho,” Berkley says. “I don’t think it’s your decision to make.”

She walks toward the door and I shoot Jericho a triumphant smile.

He scowls before striding after her and grabbing her hand. “Berkley,” he warns in a low growl.

An almost visible tremor ripples over her. She looks up at him and for a moment I think she’s going to be swayed, but then she lifts her chin a little and jerks her hand out of his.

“Fuck,” Jericho curses.

I can’t help but aggressively brush by him but when he reaches out to grab my hand, I reel away and hiss, “Don’t touch me.”

It’s an automatic response now that I have a choice. Fear of people touching me without permission. Panic at being trapped behind closed doors. Jumping in fright if I’m startled. They are the new normal of my life.

Berkley strides down to the basement confidently, as though she’s done it a thousand times before. Perhaps she has. Perhaps she’s visited her father hundreds of times. Perhaps she’s already told him I’m here.

She looks at me before keying in the code. I nod, giving both her and me the reassurance that this is what I want, but then, as she goes to pull the door open, I slam my hand against it, stopping her.

Suddenly my heart is pounding in my chest. Cold sweat dots my brow and my throat constricts, making it hard to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Berkley asks.

I’m not. But I don’t tell her that. I just stand with my hand planted against the door as though I’m afraid if I let it go it will swing open and unleash the monster within.

“Deep breaths.” Berkley demonstrates by breathing in deeply, her chest rising, her back straightening as though I don’t fucking know how to do it myself.

Even though I’m pissed at her, I copy her breathing in the hope it will calm my own. But I can’t suck in enough air. I’m hot. Too hot. Sweat drips off me and I start to shake.

“You’re having a panic attack,” she says, taking both my hands in hers and holding them tightly.

I shoot a glance toward the door, scared it will open but it remains secure and shut.

“Look at me,” Berkley orders. When I don’t, she shakes my hands. “Look at me.”

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