“His real background check,” I say.
Her eyes scan the paper before she flips it over. “There’s nothing here. Just his name and birthdate.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand.” She looks it over again.
“That background check Dad shared with us was a fake,” I say.
Her lips fall at the sides. “Your father is a good and decent man. He would never do such a thing. How dare you make such an accusation.”
“Did you know he told Madden I had an abortion?” I ask.
My mother shakes her head. “He would never.”
“He did,” I say. “The day we found out about the ectopic pregnancy and the surgery was scheduled, Madden went to his office to talk to him about something else, and Dad told him that I was pregnant with Madden’s baby but I was ‘having it taken care of.’”
She’s quiet for a moment. “How do you know what was said? You weren’t there. For all you know, Madden’s lying about the entire thing. And maybe Madden’s background check is fake, not your father’s?”
“I ran this myself.” I take the paper back, sitting it on my dresser. I’ll leave it here, in case my father needs to see it with his own eyes. “He happily gave me his Social Security number and I took it from there.”
Hoisting my suitcase off the bed, I wheel it toward the doorway, which my mother is still blocking.
“Excuse me,” I say.
She doesn’t budge.
“I’m sorry. Mom. But I’m leaving. Whether you want me to or not.” My eyes rest on hers, and for the first time in my life, I don’t see elegance, refinement, or confidence. I see a broken woman whose entire world is crumbling before her very eyes. “And I didn’t want to tell you this ... here … now … but it’s only fair that you should know.”
“What is it?”
“Dad hired Madden’s father to kill Grandma and Grandpa,” I say. “He paid him a quarter of a million dollars, and when Madden’s father was caught, he took the fall for the whole thing because he wanted his family to have that money.”
She gasps. “He would never …”
“He did.”
“I refuse to believe it.” Her hand rests over her heart now.
“Of course you do.” I squeeze past her, pulling my suitcase to the top of the stairs before bending to grab the handle.
“Get back here right this instant, Brighton,” she yell-whispers. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
“Oh, but we are.” I carry the bag down the curved staircase, my gaze fixed on the front door where my knight in shining armor sits in an idling GTO.
“Brighton. Temple. What’s going on?” My father appears from the hall, a ceramic mug in his hand.
“I’m leaving, that’s what’s going on.” Before I forget, I dig into my purse, retrieving my keys, my bank card, and my cell phone. “I refuse to spend another night under the same roof as a calculating, manipulative, cold-blooded killer.”
The color drains from my father’s face, but I don’t stay and wait for his response. Bag and suitcase in hand, I dash out the front door and skip down the steps to the circle drive where Madden stands, leaning against the passenger door, arms folded.
Releasing my things, I jump into his arms, wrapping my legs around his sides and kissing him harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone in my life.
“You ready?” he asks.
I let him go and he places my things in his trunk before we climb in.
Taking one final glance at the Iron Castle, I see my parents standing in the doorway, dumbfounded, silent. When my father attempts to put his arm around my mother to comfort her, she jerks away, heading inside and out of sight.
“I love you,” I say.
Madden turns onto the street and takes my hand. “I love you more.”
Everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ll ever need, is right here, right now. And those lowest lows? The ones that caused tears and sleepless nights and pain so deep in my chest I couldn’t breathe? They were worth it. Because the bitter only serves to make the sweet sweeter.
And this moment? It’s the sweetest.
Epilogue
Brighton
* * *
Five Years Later
* * *
“You’re a saint,” I stumble out of our bedroom, my hair a mess and my pajama top stained in DJ’s spit up.
My husband rocks our six-week-old son, Dallas Junior, after Madden’s late twin brother. He arrived on Thanksgiving Day of all days, which seemed fitting as we couldn’t be more thankful for this little miracle.
Through sleepy eyes, I watch as DJ sleeps peacefully in the muscled and tatted arms of his father. From this angle, he looks even smaller than he is, though he’s been growing like a weed. The kid eats like he’s starving, and he was already pushing nine pounds when he was born. I think he’s going to be tall, like Madden, broad-shouldered and strong.
“Thought I’d let you sleep in,” he says.
I’m still on maternity leave from my Research Director position at Hershman Medical Research, but it’s a Sunday and Madden has the next two days off, so I’m getting a bit of a reprieve … though this isn’t unusual. Madden’s the most hands-on father I’ve ever seen, which is funny because he spent the majority of our pregnancy worried about what kind of dad he was going to be and how long it was going to take to bond.
I assured him everything would be perfect.
And I’m proud to announce I was right.
I watched him fall in love all over again in real-time the first moment he held our son in his arms. Tears welled in his inky brown eyes—the first time I’d ever seen him show that kind of vulnerability.
DJ starts to fuss, squirming a little in his father’s arms.
“I’ll grab a bottle,” I say, heading to the kitchen. I glance out the window above the sink, to the big backyard he’ll get to play in someday. If we’re lucky, we’ll add a couple more to our brood, but only time will tell.
We bought this house two years ago, shortly after our wedding. It’s just an average-sized house on a third of an acre of land toward the outskirts of Olwine. White. Big front porch. Four bedrooms plus a finished basement. Not too big, not too small. Plenty of room to grow. And while I’ve taken a promotion at work and Madd Inkk has grown by leaps and bounds—catering to national and international clients and booking out six months to a year depending on the artist—I don’t see us leaving this place anytime soon.
It’s home.
Our home.
I return a minute later with a warm bottle and fresh spit-up rag, and Madden positions the baby in his left arm, cradling his head against the bend of his elbow as he shushes his whimpers.
“I love this side of you,” I say. “You have no idea.”
He rolls his eyes, trying not to smile. He isn’t the softest person—at least not on the outside. Over the years, I’ve learned he’s all marshmallow fluff on the inside. He just protects it with his armored steel personality. I will say, though, that he’s opened up quite a bit over the years. And no longer does he deflect my questions or change the subject if we’re talking about something that once made him uncomfortable. It didn’t happen overnight and it took a lot of trust and faith on his part, but he’s practically an open book now, and all his flaws, his past tragedies, and less-than-perfect childhood only makes me love and understand him that much more.