Page 98 of Versions Of Us

The left side of her mouth twitches. “You mean it’s allyours.”

“Fine,” I agree.

“Okay. Just give me till tonight,” she pleads, her eyebrows pulling together.

“Okay. Tonight.”

I can work with that. I head back inside the tavern, ready to grovel for Dylan’s forgiveness.

As much as I hate to admit it, Old Tommy has a point. I’ve been promising myself I’ll become a better version of myself one day, but one day is already here. And I have nothing to show for it.

It’s time I stopped talking and put a plan into action.

It’s time to step up.

It’s time to be better.

Chapter 40

KRISTEN

Mackenzie was gone before I stumbled out into the kitchen this morning, my eyes puffy after the restless night I’d had. I’d glanced inside her open bedroom door to find her bed made and no sign of her inside.

I’d tossed and turned all night, weighing up all of the theories that had swirled through my head, but in the end, I’d only been left with more questions than answers.

Are Mackenzie and Em the same person?

And if that is the case, then what role does Henley play in all of this?

Could he be the saviour she’d hoped would rescue her from a bad relationship?

Who the hell is this woman that I’ve allowed into my home? That I’ve supported financially for the last couple of weeks.

I anxiously pace the length of the kitchen. I’m so confused, my mind contemplating all the possible ways that I could confront her about this.

Do I get mad?

Should I be gentle?

Should I come out guns blazing, demanding to know what she’s hiding, or do I take a more subtle approach by asking her twenty questions?

Or should I go straight to Henley?

I power on the Nespresso machine. Maybe my thoughts will be more logical after coffee. As I reach for a mug from the overhead kitchen cabinet, I hear a knock on the front door.

Mackenzie must be back. She probably forgot to take her key again. I’d hoped I’d have more time to figure this out without her being here. I inhale a nervous breath and swing open the door with no real plan or clue about what I’m going to say to her.

And then my breath hitches in my throat.

It isn’t Mackenzie at all.

The face that stares back at me is familiar and yet also completely foreign. His skin marred with deep wrinkles, the whites of his eyes a sickly shade of pale yellow, his complexion an unhealthy grey. It’s clear the years have not been kind to him.

But there is no mistaking who he is.

“Dad?” The word feels foreign as it leaves my mouth.

Biologically this man is my father, but he hasn’t been my dad for many years.

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