#1 - Page 16 (1/2)

She nods and follows me inside the house. I pause in the foyer, not quite familiar enough with the house to know where my father would be at the moment. Ezra pa.s.ses me, muttering a “goodnight,” and heads up the stairs. She must live here.

“Silas.”

It sounds like my voice, but more worn. I turn and am suddenly face to face with the man in all the family photos lining the walls. He’s missing the brilliantly fake smile, though.

He eyes me up and down, as if the mere sight of his son disappoints him.

He turns and walks through a door leading out of the foyer. His silence and the a.s.surance in his steps demand I follow him, so I do. We walk into his study, and he slowly edges around his desk and takes a seat. He leans forward and folds his arms over the mahogany wood. “Care to explain?”

I’m tempted to explain. I really am. I want to tell him that I have no idea who he is, no idea why he’s angry, no idea who I am.

I should probably be nervous or intimidated by him. I’m sure yesterday’s Silas would have been, but it’s hard to feel intimidated by someone I don’t know at all. As far as I’m concerned, he has no power over me, and power is the primary ingredient of intimidation.

“Care to explain what?” I ask.

My eyes move to a shelf of books on the wall behind him. They look like cla.s.sics. Collectibles. I wonder if he’s read any of the books or if they’re just more ingredients for his intimidation.

“Silas!” His voice is so deep and sharp; it feels like the tip of a knife piercing my ears. I press my hand against the side of my neck and squeeze before looking at him again. He eyes the chair across from him, silently commanding me to sit down.

I get the feeling yesterday’s Silas would be saying, “Yes, sir,” right about now.

Today’s Silas smiles and walks slowly to his seat.

“Why was she inside this house today?”

He’s referring to Charlie like she’s poison. He’s referring to her the same way her mother referred to me. I look down at the arm of the chair and pick at a piece of worn leather. “She wasn’t feeling well at school. She needed a ride home, and we took a quick detour.”

This man…my father…leans back in his chair. He brings a hand up to his jaw and rubs it.

Five seconds pa.s.s.

Ten seconds pa.s.s.

Fifteen.

He finally leans forward again. “You seeing her again?”

Is this a trick question? Because it feels like one.

If I say yes, it’ll obviously p.i.s.s him off. If I say no, it feels like I’ll be letting him win. I don’t know why, but I really don’t want this man to win. He seems like he’s accustomed to winning.

“What if I am?”