Part 16 (2/2)

”Sit down.”

He had that don't-argue-with-me tone, the one he didn't use very often. So I sat.

My father sighed. He stared at his hands for a long time, then back at me. ”Talk to me, Cooper.”

”About what?”

”About Megan, for one. I know you're worried. Has there been any news?”

I shook my head. Tears sprang into my eyes, but I brushed them away with the back of my fist.

”I can't imagine what that family is going through.” He leaned forward. ”Or you.”

”I'm cool.” I wasn't, but I also wasn't in any mood to talk about Megan. That would involve starting at the beginning, and I knew my dad didn't believe in fairy tales with big ugly monsters any more than Faulkner did.

”Anything I can do, you let me know.”

I fiddled with my pizza. ”Thanks.”

”I'm here to help you. With anything.” He gave me a smile. ”Even your Hamlet paper.”

”Dad, quit it. You're not supposed to help me. It's, like, a conflict of interest or something.”

He chuckled. I hadn't seen him laugh in so long, I hadn't even realized he still could. The sound was a nice. I thought about how when all this was over, I should spend more time with my dad-outside of school. ”You're right.” He pretended to zip his lip and sat back. ”When was the last time we did that?”

”What, talked about Hamlet? Try today. Second period.”

”No, I meant laughed together, ate pizza, and just talked? I miss having you and your brother around all the time.”

”Yeah, me too.” Though my parents had joint custody, my dad had never really argued when my mother had asked for more time. He was the peacemaker, figuring if it made my mother happy, that was good enough for him.

I think he still loved her.

My father watched me for a long time, then let out another sigh. ”There's more than just Megan's disappearance bugging you, Cooper. Lately, you haven't been acting like a yourself. You're jumpy. Forgetful. And you look like you haven't slept in a week.”

I shrugged. ”Things suck at home.”

”How?”

The words pushed at my throat, crowding together like eleven-year-old girls outside the doors of a Hannah Montana concert. I wanted to tell him; I really did. I wanted to tell someone, someone who could help. Instead I swallowed hard and shoved the truth back to my gut. ”The dog died.”

My father jerked upright. ”Whipple? Died? How? When?”

”I don't know. Mom said that Sam found him anda”

My voice trailed off. I had never asked my mother for any details about Whipple. Like where the dog was buried. Then I remembered something else that my mother had told me.

Sam a found him in the woods.

In the woods a where? By the well?

Had the creature gotten Whipple? Or had Sam?

Could Sam kill my dog? Or had he seen something kill him and just covered up the evidence? A lot of deaths circling around the name Sam lately. Two and two were beginning to add up, and I wasn't liking the total.

”And what?” my father pressed.

”And I don't know any more than that,” I said, keeping my suspicions to myself. That's all they were-suspicions. I had no proof of anything.

My father's gaze narrowed. He studied me, then turned away and went to the fireplace, his back to me. ”What do you think of Sam?”

The question caught me off-guard. ”I don't know. I don't like him, but he's my stepfather. Kind of comes with the second marriage, doesn't it?”

”I suppose it does.”

”He's been super uptight lately, too. The vineyard has this big anniversary deal coming up and business is down. He blames everyone for that.” I picked at my fingernails. ”Especially me.”

My father turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. ”He's never really liked you, has he?”

”I dunno. I've never really liked him. We're even.” I picked at my nails some more, waiting for my father to talk. But he didn't. He was like that a lot. The kind of guy who could go an hour without saying a word. I wished he'd turn on the television or the radio, anything to make noise. The clock in the hall ticked along. Still my father didn't say anything. I fidgeted on the couch. Fidgeted some more. ”Why didn't you fight more to keep her?”

Oh man. Where had that come from? How had I let that one out?

It had to be the stress of the past few days. Or my blood sugar was spiking from the carbs or something.

My father didn't say anything. I studied my Vans, sure my dad was glaring at me, afraid to look. Finally, I lifted my head and checked.

Instead, I found a mixture of surprise and sadness in his eyes. He pushed off from the fireplace and came back to his chair, dropping into it with a long breath. ”Your mother's known Sam a long time.”

I perked up. ”She has?”

He nodded. ”From before you were born. He delivered you.”

Disgust bubbled up inside me. It was too weird to think about that-StepScrooge Sam's being at the other end of the birth ca.n.a.l and seeing me pop out. ”You're not serious.”

”It might have started between them when she was pregnant, but I'm not sure.”

I pulled childhood memories out of the corners of my mind, shuffled them, dealt them out, and revisited them. My parents on vacation, holding hands, kissing, laughing together. My mother waiting by the door for my father to get home from parent-teacher conferences, tucking her hair behind her ear or checking her lipstick in the hall mirror. My father grabbing her after dinner and giving her a hug just because she had made his favorite meatloaf.

And then one day, things changed, as fast as I could snap my fingers. She stopped waiting by the door and left TV dinners on the counter with a note. My father stopped smiling when he came home and just headed for the den, burying himself in essay corrections instead of his family. The next thing Faulkner and I knew, we were living in Sam's mansion and my father was alone.

”No, Dad, I don't think it started then. She was happy when we were kids. She loved you.”

It was as if a flower had bloomed on my father's face. Hope exploded across his features, brightening his smile, his eyes. He came to life in a way I hadn't seen in a year and a half. ”You a you really think so?”

”Yeah, Dad,” I said quietly, the two of us connecting across the wooden floor, not with a touch but because we both missed the days of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. ”I do.”

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