“Then we will cross that bridge. We will get through it together.”
I can feel the way she trembles. Whether from the cold or my words, I’m not sure.
“You really need to talk to your father.”
“I will,” she promises. “I know. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
51
Skye
The next morning comes before I’m ready. I don’t want to face my father. I don’t want to know the truth. I’m not ready to deal with the consequences of that truth. What if everything I know about this man is a lie?
I didn’t sleep last night; I tossed and turned the whole time, wondering what he would say. Is he a crooked cop? Did he take bribes? Did he murder my parents? Or is this a case of mistaken identity? Maybe when Felix said Ralph, he didn’t mean my father—my adoptive father.
I shake my head back and forth. Whatever the truth may be, it won’t change the fact he raised me and took care of me. That he adopted me after the massacre.
From beside me in the bed, Tobias moves. My tossing and turning probably woke him.
“Are you okay over there?” he asks me. I turn to face him. He looks beautiful in the early morning light. His eyes seem bottomless, full of so many feelings and emotions. The man next to me in bed is not the man he is anywhere else. With everyone else, he’s closed off, but with me, he’s different. It’s like I have my own private version of him.
He is the boy before the crime. He is the boy I fell in love with when he soothed me.
“I’m not,” I admit.
“Talk to me, Skye.”
“Why bother? You already know what’s bothering me.” I sound like a petulant child, but I don’t want to do this.
“I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to do this, but—”
I let out a sigh. “I know. Fine. I’ll drive up there today.” This time I’m fully huffing. I’m certainly not acting like the lawyer Tobias originally hired.
When it comes to my father, I’m still the scared little girl who had no one.
“No. I’ll drive you up there.”
“Absolutely not.”
“There is no way I’m letting you go by yourself.”
“You really aren’t going to have much choice.”
Tobias takes my hand and turns over my palm until my tattoo faces us. “See this?” I nod.
“This shows you are mine. I fucking own you, Skye Matthews. I have owned your soul from the very first moment we met. And you know what? You have owned mine as well. Where you go, I go.”
My mouth opens and shuts. I have no idea how to respond.
My heart pounds in my chest. He’s not wrong. Every word he says is the truth, and in his tone, I can hear his conviction.
“We are going. And we are going today.”
His hair is disheveled. His eyes narrowed. He looks like a man possessed.
“I don’t know if he will talk if you’re around.”
“He’ll talk,” he deadpans.
“Tobias . . .” I draw out his name in a warning.
“What?” He’s acting clueless, but he knows exactly what I’m saying. But I clarify anyway.
“There is no threatening my father. I don’t care what role he played in everything.”
“No promises.” He goes to move away from me, and my hand shoots up to stop him.
“Tobias!”
He lifts his arms out in surrender. “Fine. Fuck, Skye. I don’t know how you do it . . .”
“Do what?”
“Undo me.” His arms envelop me, pulling me close until his nose is buried in the crook of my neck. “You make me do things I would never do. You make me think of a world where maybe I can be something different, something more.”
“You can.”
“When you say that, I believe it.” He holds me close, placing soft kisses on my neck, but then he pulls away.
I groan at the movement.
“As much as I want to do that, and I do, we have to go. If your father is involved—”
I reach my hand out and grab his. “You can’t hurt him.”
“Skye.”
“No, Tobias. You cannot hurt him. You can come, but I will never forgive you if you hurt him.”
Tobias looks at me, but he doesn’t speak. His jaw is set, lips a thin line. But I can see it in his eyes. He doesn’t have to say anything; I know him. I know the way he looks at me, and I know the promises behind them. No matter what we hear today, he will never hurt him.
Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because I asked.
Tobias Kosta loves me.
My hands shake as I reach for the front doorknob and insert my key in the lock. I take a deep breath and push through, trying my best to ignore the way my stomach churns with nerves. When I step inside, I go in search of my father.
It feels as if my heart might beat out of my chest, but there is one saving grace. Tobias is waiting in the car.
I asked for that, and he agreed.
So now, I’m making my way through the foyer, each step slower than the next. There is no one in the kitchen, and as I make my way down the hallway, I’m shocked to see my father sitting on the couch.
His face tilts up, and it looks like he’s been crying, his nose red and his eyes watery.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” I reply, trying to keep my voice cool and calm. “I need to talk to you.”
He shifts awkwardly but nods for me to take a seat.
“No. I’ll stand.” But instead of standing, I pace. My feet cross the distance of the room, only to walk back. I don’t even know how to start this conversation. Pain radiates through me like I’m being stabbed in the chest.
“I wasn’t expecting you today, was I?” he asks, confused. His nose scrunches as if he’s trying to remember whether I told him of my visit prior to showing up.
I hadn’t.
“No. I didn’t call.”
“Is everything okay?” He moves to sit up straight, but he lets out a groan. The veins on the side of his neck pulse.
He’s in pain, and it breaks my heart. No matter what I hear, I will always love him for taking me in.
“What are you doing here?” He rubs at his face, he looks tired. Maybe he was sleeping? Seeing him like this has me wanting to turn around and tell Tobias that there is nothing here. No story. That Felix was wrong. But as much as I want to do that, I can’t.
I wring my fingers as I pace. Why is this so hard? “I came to ask about the day my parents died.”
“What about it?”
I come to a complete stop before turning to my father. “Felix Bernard.”
His face goes pale, and the mug in his hand slips, crashing against the wood floors. I scramble to pick up the pieces of ceramic splattered around the couch.
Carefully lifting the broken shards, I place the pieces on the coffee table. The mug was empty, and other than the small drop here or there, the floor is clean. I’ll wipe it up later.
“Dad?”
My father rubs his forehead. His eyes are wet. He’s trying not to cry.