Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(59)

“I . . . I, um . . .”

She didn’t know what to say. Should she admit to working at the Pamlico House? What about Erik? No. No! She couldn’t mention Erik, or her father would forbid her to ever see him again.

Her father took a step toward her, hands on his hips. “Issy come by last night to check on ya. The li’l’n keeps her up so she comes by regular.”

“You weren’t here, Laire. Not at nine, not at ten, not at two in the mornin’!” cried Issy. Laire blinked at the panic in her sister’s voice, understanding, for the first time, that she wasn’t just angry, but scared. “I waited for you, but as the hours went by, I got worried, so I called Kyrstin. She hadn’t seen you all night. Said you never came into work. We called Brodie to see if you was with him, but he said he hadn’t seen you in weeks. I was scared. So I radioed Daddy.”

. . . at three o’clock in the morning.

Fuck.

Laire put a hand to her chest, which felt tight with her racing heartbeat and the horrible adrenaline rush of being found out. She needed a story. And fast.

“So where you been at, gal?” asked her father again. “And who you been with all night because he’s goin’ ta need to make it right w’ you.”

Make it right.

No.

No. No. No.

Marriage.

Her father was talking about a shotgun marriage.

She had to say something fast, to distance herself from the island men her father would suspect.

“I . . .,” she started again, glancing at Kyrstin before continuing. “I haven’t been workin’ on Ocracoke. I’ve been workin’ over in Buxton.”

“You what?!”Her father recoiled, stepping back as if she’d slapped him. He looked over at Kyrstin.

“You knew ’bout this?”

Kyrstin nodded, giving Laire dagger eyes before dropping her head in shame.

“Since when?” her father demanded.

“I n-never worked on Ocracoke. I just . . . Kyrs wanted a bar job, and so I let her—”

Kyrstin’s head snapped up. “Don’t you dare blame this on me, Laire!”

“I’m not blamin’ you!” she cried. “But—”

“So two of my girls been lyin’ to me all summer.” Her father took a deep breath and exhaled long and hard, reaching up to press his palm to his chest. “Lyin’ like snakes.”

“No, Daddy,” said Laire, even though it was true. She had been lying all summer. She’d been living in a fantasy world with Erik Rexford, and it was all crashing down around her.

“Yes, Laire! YOU BE A LIAR!” he boomed.

“Daddy, please, calm—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! Where you been all night?”

Kyle started crying. and Laire looked up at her sister, whose pinched expression was traded for a mother’s tenderness, jostling her baby in her arms. “Don’t cry, li’l’un.”

At some point, tears had started falling from Laire’s eyes too. “I’m sorry. I’m so s-s-sorry.”

“So you been in Buxton. All summer,” her father said, his voice resigned, heavy and deeply disappointed, which gutted her. “But you still come home every night by ’leven. ’Cept for last night.”

She gulped, the memory of Erik’s body sliding inside hers still so sharp, she could feel him. She could feel his beautiful fullness, and it made her want to weep for what was happening now—for the price she was going to have to pay for those cherished hours spent with him last night and this morning.

“Daddy . . .”

He shook his head, his face a mask of disappointment and shame. “I thank t’Lord your mama’s gone and can’t see this disgrace! Would’ve killed her if she waren’t already dead!”

His words hurt worse than any physical punch, kick, or hit to any tender part of her body, and she felt herself reeling from them, wanting to curl up in a tight ball until she could wake up from this nightmare.

“Don’t . . . say . . . that . . .,” she sobbed. “Please . . .”

“IT BE THE TRUTH!” he cried. “You shame her memory, Laire!”

“Please,” she begged him, hugging herself as tears fell down her cheeks in ceaseless streams. “Please don’t—”

“I know . . .” He started in a softer voice, then stopped, rubbing his chest with the heel of his palm. When he started speaking again, his voice was softer and more breathless. “I know you been with s-someone . . . so you best tell me who. Now. Right now, Laire! I’ll . . . I’ll h-head up to Buxton and I’ll force h-him to . . . to do right by you. If he’s a man with any . . . p-principle, he’ll . . . he’ll do right . . . he’ll . . .”

Don’t speak.

She shook her head back and forth, her tears falling in rivulets. She couldn’t speak. She wouldn’t. She would never, ever give up Erik’s name. No matter what.

“GOD DAMN IT, LAIRE!” he bellowed. “You speak to me! Who you . . . b-been with? First that . . . t-talk about . . . Brodie Walsh! Now this! You tell me . . . y-you tell me . . . where you b-been, you . . . lyin’ little . . . you lyin’ . . .”

His voice wheezed and cut off, and Laire looked up as he clutched at his chest desperately, his knuckles white as his fingers dug into the bib of his overalls.