Black Bird of the Gallows(41)
He shakes his head. “Not a secret, just an unknown. We’re drawn to a place where death is coming, but we never know how death will come.”
“Maybe it was for a different reason,” I say hopefully. “Maybe it has nothing to do with…with—”
“It always has to do with death.”
“Oh.” I swallow thickly. My words feel sluggish, as reluctant to come as I am to hear the answers. My whole life is here—everyone I care about. Just the thought of losing them makes my breath stop, my stomach knot. I wrap my arms around my middle and lean forward. “Do you know…when?”
His expression goes sympathetic, edged with frustration. He gets it, but he’s as helpless to change anything as I am. Knowing can be a curse in itself when you can’t stop something terrible from happening. “Can’t be sure. My guess is, we have a few more weeks.” He rolls his shoulders up and back, but the movement does not appear to relax him. “The scent will intensify and change. You need to be out of here before then.”
“Ha. Yeah. I can see that conversation: ‘Hey, Dad, the people next door are harbingers of death, and they say we’re going to die if we stay in Cadence, so can we move out for a while?’” The thought is so ludicrous, I laugh. “Guess how that chat will end.”
“That may not be the best approach,” he says seriously. “But we’ll have to think of something. You need to be out of here.”
“And what will you do after the…bad thing happens?”
“The same thing we always do—we’ll put our things in storage and leave. Start scenting out the next impending disaster.” He looks up, eyes turbulent, anguished. A muscle flexes in his jaw. “I’m sorry, Angie. We have so little time.”
His words squeeze my heart. I have so many more questions—loads of them, but they’re suddenly not as important as this charged beat of quiet. Time holds still. Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes. The air between us snaps, compresses, pulls us toward each other.
He moves forward on hands and knees at the same time I do. His hand slips around the back of my head, into my hair. He pulls me close as I reach for him. My hands land on his warm chest, curl against the rapid beat beneath.
Unlike our last kiss, I know this one’s coming. I have a sudden, unbidden worry if I’m any good at this—kissing, that is—then his mouth is on mine and coherent thought blasts into a billion tiny pieces. Blood roars in my ears. A soft sound comes from one of us. It could be me. Right now, there is only this kiss. And, oh man, what a kiss it—
“Hey, Angie, just wanted to…” A familiar voice breaks in, then trails off in a quiet expletive.
Reece and I separate in a disoriented tumble. I goggle at my father, who stands open-mouthed in the door.
17-the ones you love…
My father’s face is a mask of horrified bewilderment. “Say good night,” he finishes in a strangled voice.
“Dad, I…” This is it—worst. Case. Scenario. “It’s not… We were just—”
Dad’s face floods with color. “You.” He aims a finger at Reece. “Go home. Now.”
This looks bad. Hell, to my dad, this is bad. On the other hand, neither of us is terribly mussed. One less reason for my dad to have a coronary.
“Ah, yes sir, Mr. Dovage.” Reece gets to his feet and gropes for his coat. He spreads his hands in a soothing manner, as is he’s dealing with a feral dog. Or a lunatic. “I-I’m sorry you— I mean, I apologize for—”
Dad’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. It’s so strange to see him like this. “I will hurt you, son.”
Reece wisely ducks his head and shuts his mouth. He shoots me a sympathetic look and turns to the door. “Good night, Angie. Mr. Dovage.”
Dad watches Reece leave in silence. He stares at the closed door for a moment. When he turns to me, it’s not anger I see in his face.
My stomach flips over. I’ve hurt him.
“Angie.”
My shoulders drop. I’d prefer anger. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
He sinks onto one of my music stools. “I don’t understand. I’ve never told you not to date. In fact, I was beginning to worry a little that you weren’t dating. I have no objection to that boy—at least I didn’t.” He scowls at the door. “Why did you sneak around behind my back? Am I an ogre or something?”
My chest squeezes painfully. “Not at all. You’re…” the best father I could have.
“You could have told me the truth.” He sighs. “I wouldn’t have forbidden you from seeing him.”
“I know.” It’s hard to talk choked up like this. “I-I really am very sorry.”
“Just…why, then?”
The full truth isn’t an option. “Honestly, I-I wasn’t expecting… We were just talking.”
“You could have ‘talked’ on the sofa in the den.”
No, we really couldn’t have. If he had overheard even a snippet of our conversation, he would forbid me from seeing Reece—except maybe during visitation hours at the psychiatric ward.
I need things to be good between my dad and me. And I need him to forgive Reece and not do something catastrophic like ground me. I bite my lip and consider my options. The most surefire way to defuse this is to break out an excuse I haven’t pulled on him in years—my mom.