All the Missing Girls(30)

I stood confidently by Everett’s side as he marched into Grand Pines. They never stood a chance, and I knew it.

As he walked off to see the director, the woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow at me, then the corner of her mouth, as in Nice.

I nodded. I know.

But then her eyes assessed me, like she was picking me apart, and I felt the clothes that didn’t fit right, and my hair that wasn’t done, and I knew my hands were probably still trembling from the caffeine.

“I’m here to see my dad. Patrick Farrell,” I said.

“Okay, sure,” she said, picking up the phone.

The nurse I’d seen on the first day led me to the common room, where Dad was playing with a stack of cards, some game that looked like solitaire but didn’t seem to follow any rules I understood.

“Look who I found, Patrick. Your daughter.”

He looked up, smiled big and real, and I felt my face doing the same. “Hi, Nic.”

Such a simple, beautiful sentence.

“You sure are popular today,” the nurse said, leaving us.

I grabbed her arm as she walked away. “Who was here? The police?”

“The . . . what?” She stared at my fingers on her sleeve, and I quickly released her. “No, the man who comes for lunch.” She brushed her hand over her arm, smoothing out the wrinkles.

“Daniel?” I asked, looking from her to my dad.

She shook her head. “No, the other one. Patrick, who’s the man who comes to lunch on Fridays?”

He drummed his fingers against the table and stared past me, a slight grin. “I can’t tell you that, Nic.”

I grinned at the nurse like I thought this was cute. Funny, even. “Who was here, Dad?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.” He had the audacity to laugh.

The nurse winked at my dad, then turned to me. “Good--looking guy. Blue eyes, brown hair, always in jeans and work boots . . .”

I swung my head back to my father, who was chewing the inside of his cheek. “Tyler?” I asked.

The nurse patted my dad’s shoulder and walked away. He’d scooped up the cards and was focused on dealing the stack between the two of us. I had no idea what to do with my hand. He played a king and seemed to be waiting for something from me.

“Why the hell does Tyler come here?”

“Why wouldn’t Tyler come? Did you lay exclusive claim to rights of friendship with Tyler Ellison? Your turn,” he said, gesturing to my cards.

I threw down an ace, tried to relax my shoulders, to keep this conversation from sliding away from him too quickly. “Ha. I didn’t realize you guys had so much in common.”

Dad frowned as he picked up the stack, then played a five of diamonds. “Pay attention.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Tell me what Tyler wants with you.” I stopped playing, trying to hold his focus.

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “He doesn’t want anything. He just comes.” He gestured to my hand until I threw out a random card. “He’s a good kid, Nic. I think he likes the food.” He looked around the room, like he was momentarily confused. “Or maybe the young nurse over there who works Fridays. I don’t know. But he comes for lunch.” I peered over my shoulder, saw the nurse lingering near the front desk through the doorway. She was shorter than me, her scrubs were nondescript, and her lipstick veered well outside the line of her lips, but she was attractive. Her hair was dark and neat. She was young. Perky.

“And you’re not supposed to tell me?” I asked.

“Definitely not.” Two of hearts.

“And why is that, if there’s not some other reason he’s coming? Think about it, Dad.” Two of spades.

“You’re not paying attention,” he said as he swiped up the stack—about the cards or Tyler, I wasn’t sure.

A new group of residents wandered in, and a few nurses shuffled in and out, carrying clipboards. We were running out of time. Dad stacked all the cards, and I placed my hand over his. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” he said.

“Dad, listen. We took care of it. The police can’t question you. Do not let anyone question you. You tell us right away. Or the nurse. Or the doctor. They’re not allowed. You don’t have to talk to them. You understand?”

“I . . . Of course not. I wouldn’t,” he said.

But you did.

“I wish I’d been a better father, Nic.”

“Dad, don’t—”

“I really do. I can see it now that it’s gone. But you can’t go back, can you?”

I shook my head. No, you can’t.

He tapped the side of his head. “This is my penance, don’t you think?” Like losing his mind was the price to pay for being a shitty father.

“You weren’t mean. You weren’t bad.” He wasn’t anything. He made me laugh, and he gave me a roof over my head and food in the kitchen, and he never raised a hand to me, or his voice. For a lot of people, that would make him good. A good father. A good man.

He leaned across the table, took my hand again. “Are you happy, Nic?”

“Yes,” I said. I had everything I wanted waiting for me in Philadelphia. A whole life there.