I blinked. “I smelled biscuits.”
She barked out another laugh. Even that sound was foreign. I recalled her sweet, low laughter. Her lighthearted giggle. This was neither of those.
She reached below the counter and grabbed two biscuits, shoving them in a bag. “There.”
“I was going to—”
She cut me off. “No. You’re going to take the biscuits and get the hell out of my shop and my life, Linc.”
“Sunny, I want to talk. I need to—”
Again, she cut me off. “I said no. You had plenty of time to talk while I pined away for you. I no longer care what you need.”
“But I—”
“Get out, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
I stared at the angry, cold woman in front of me. This wasn’t Sunny. Not the Sunny I remembered. Then again, I wasn’t the same boy.
“All right, I’ll go. But I’m coming back. I’ll see you soon.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that before. I guess we already know that won’t be happening.”
Then she turned on her heel and walked away.
She was on my mind all day, no longer a ghost, but a living, breathing woman. Beautiful. Sad. Angry.
Here. Right here in Mission Cove. I had looked for her years ago, unable to locate her, finally deciding to let her go and move on. Concentrate on my plan and make sure my father no longer had the power to hurt people. I knocked over the pieces in his intricate game of chess, taking his queen and leaving him with no moves left.
The day I received the call that he’d had a massive heart attack in his office and died had produced one emotion: relief. I didn’t go to see him. There was no funeral. Only a simple statement in the paper and I had his ashes shipped to me.
I found great satisfaction in driving them to the local dump and tossing them into a pile of rotting garbage.
His soul was rotten, and that was where he belonged.
I shook my head, clearing my morbid thoughts. I glanced at the two boxes of possessions I was taking with me. Small mementos I had found in searching the house all day. Things my father would have overlooked since they were sentimental, and he would have had no idea they could mean something to me. Two of the boxes were items that belonged to my mother that were hidden in the basement, the cardboard covered in dust and forgotten. The other a few photos and various things I’d picked up as I walked around.
“Are you sure that is all?” my lawyer, Ned Jenkins, asked. “Some of the things in the house are incredibly valuable, Lincoln.”
“I’m sure. Send all the books to the library. They can sell the first editions and use the rest. Open the place up. Biggest garage sale in the history of Mission’s Cove. All the money goes to the town.”
“The place will be swamped.”
I lifted a shoulder. “I’ve hired the right people. It’ll be handled. Once it’s done, the house comes down.”
“And what will you do with the land?”
“I’m still thinking on it. But the symbol of this place, the power my father had over this town, needs to go.”
“I understand. I’ll finish drawing up the papers and getting the permits. I should have most of them tomorrow. Anything else you need?”
“No.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He left, the sound of his car fading away, leaving me alone in the house I hated as a child, loathed as a teen, and now planned on destroying as an adult.
I sat at my father’s desk, looking around the room. His seat of power—now crumbled to dust.
The same as his body.
Appropriate.
I opened the drawers, all empty now, the personal effects long removed. As I gripped the drawer front, I felt the edge of something with my finger, and I opened the drawer again, curious.
A key was fitted into the wood, and I pulled it out, studying it. It was nondescript and dull, and I had no idea what it was for. I stared at it, nonplussed. Why would my father have a key hidden in this drawer?
I pushed back the chair, studying the desk. On impulse, I pulled out the drawer and studied it, then glanced at the desk. The drawer was shorter than the desk by at least nine inches. Using my phone for light, I peered into the dark recess, shocked when metal glinted back at me. A hidden lockbox. My father had a hidden lockbox.
Reaching inside, I grasped the metal box and slid it out.
It sat on top of the desk, innocent-looking, yet somehow, I knew the contents held inside would prove to be anything but.
With a shaking hand, I inserted the key and opened the lid. I stared down at the items inside.
I picked up a book, flipping open the cover. It was a journal belonging to my mother from when she was younger. There were various envelopes, letters, documents, and files. I was mystified as to why these were all locked away.
I gasped as I saw the two piles of envelopes that lay at the bottom.
Rage built, anger crashing over me as I recognized my own writing.
“That fucking bastard,” I hissed.
A movement in the doorway caused me to look up. Sunny stood, observing me, her arms crossed, anger holding her head high, her shoulders tight.
My own emotions were so heightened, I drew on her anger. Welcomed it with my own.
Found myself hardening at the sight of the beauty that her anger brought out in her. She was a fucking vision in her outrage. I dropped the items I was holding and crossed the room.
“Come to brave the monster in his den, Sunny?” I asked. “Get me in private so you can tell me what you think of me? What you think I did to you all those years ago?”
“I know what you did to me, Lincoln,” she replied, her eyes flashing.
Her use of my full name made me angrier. “No. You think you do, but you don’t.”
“How dare you show up today, walk back into my life as if the last ten years didn’t happen?”
I stalked closer, so we were inches apart. I wanted to push her past the breaking point. I wanted to break through the rigid shell she had around herself and find Sunny. To make her see Linc.
“I go anywhere I please, sweetheart. You might not realize it, but I own the building your shop is in.” I pointed toward the window. “I own every goddamn place in the town, just like my father did.”
“Is that a threat, Lincoln? Is that what happened to you? You became your father?”
“Maybe I did,” I lied. “Maybe whatever thoughts you have of me now are right. Maybe I am a bastard like he was.”
“The boy I loved wasn’t a bastard.”
“But he fucked you and left, isn’t that how you see it?”
Her slap echoed in the room, my head snapping back from the force. We stared at each other, locked in a wordless war. I smiled grimly.
“How appropriate you hit me here, in this room. This is where he always beat me. Right here.” I crossed the room to the center of the rug. “He’d start here—usually with a punch in the ribs, or kidneys if my back was turned. Once he had me down, he’d add a few more punches or use his feet. Those hurt, you know? Usually it was because I had been with you or couldn’t account for every penny I’d spent. Again, usually because I made sure I left money in your house to help your family. Or he’d beat me because of my arrogance in thinking I deserved to make a decision for myself. Or sometimes because he fucking liked it. It made him feel better, and god forbid Franklin Thomas ever not feel good.” By the end, I was shouting. I strode back to her, all my anger boiling over. “So, do it, Sunny. Hit me. Hit me until you feel better. One of us might as well.”