Say You Still Love Me(123)

“You’ll call me tomorrow, as soon as you get home?”

His jaw grows taut and he swallows, his gaze flittering to the dark window, to the unseen face looming behind.

“Yeah. Here.” He slips off the leather bracelet from his wrist. “To remind you of me.”

“As if I could ever forget you.” I laugh through my tears. I search my body, coming up empty. “I wish I had something to give you.”

“I don’t need anything.” He smiles sadly and taps his temple. “It’s all up here.”

With one last kiss, he breaks free and begins walking away, his head hanging low.

Not until I’m seated and we’re rolling down the driveway, my thumb rubbing back and forth over the grain of the leather, do I get the eerie sense that that felt like a final goodbye.




I’m staring at the plate in front of me—at the massacred slice of toast, shredded to pieces, none of them eaten—when my father swoops into the kitchen, his navy suit looking fresh and crisp, coffee mug in hand. It’s Monday morning, at eleven. He should have been at work four hours ago.

“Your mother is on her way back from Paris. She’ll be home in a few hours,” he announces. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since the drive home from Wawa, early yesterday morning. After he told me I can forget about my car for a year, as well as my credit card.

“Did she sound upset that she and Aunt Jackie had to end their vacation early?”

“Is that who she told you she’s with?” Dad’s jaw tightens. “No. She and . . . Aunt Jackie know it’s time they came home.” His voice is dripping with bitterness.

“Have you been able to find out anything about Eric?” I ask, pleading in my voice. Ashley and I have been texting back and forth, but there’s no news between the two of us. I emailed Christa yesterday, to see if she’d heard. Being lead counselor, she has more access to the office computer than any other counselors there. Plus, she’s the only email address I have besides the Camp Wawa administrative in-box that I used for employment paperwork.

She has no news on him, either.

So, I asked my father yesterday if he could find something out. He always has his ways. He didn’t acknowledge my request with anything more than a glare.

Dad chugs the rest of his coffee and then sets the porcelain mug on the counter. “The boy’s leg and arm are badly broken and he hit his head a few times, but they’re saying he’ll pull through.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry for lying to you.”

His jaw tenses. “I’m sorry, too, Piper. But I will always do what I know is best for you. Remember that.” With that, he’s gone.

Leaving me to stare at my phone, the agony unbearable.

Kyle hasn’t called.

Hasn’t messaged, hasn’t texted.

Christa said he left Wawa before anyone woke up on Sunday morning. And yet I haven’t heard from him. I keep thinking something horrible happened on his drive home. But when I call his number, it rings on and on. His family doesn’t know to call me, but, if something bad had happened, wouldn’t a family member answer his phone?

The calls go through; it hasn’t died yet, so it’s being charged.

So why isn’t he answering?

Why hasn’t he called?





Chapter 25



NOW


“This is where your dad lives?” Kyle’s gaze roams the Tudor-style house ahead as our cab pulls into the driveway. We’re in a quiet gated community only fifteen minutes away from the downtown core and five minutes from my childhood home. Nothing’s changed about this part of Lennox, which is graced with deep-rooted oak trees and ten-foot cedar hedges for fence lines and two-acre properties.

“Yeah, why?”

“I just expected something more . . . showy, I guess.”

“That’s not really my dad’s style.” Despite what he builds. The house is on the smaller size compared to the other houses in the neighborhood, but it has character and charm, landscaped with lush gardens and stone pathways marked by ornate lampposts. “We’ll probably be fifteen or twenty minutes,” I tell the cab driver.

“You got it, lady.” The gruff, unshaven man settles back, leaving the meter running.

There’s a silver Z3 parked in front of the garage. His flavor of the month must be here. Great. We’ll have an audience for this.

As resolute as I was while standing in my bathroom, now I wonder whether this is a big mistake. If I should focus on dealing with Tripp and keep my personal affairs private for a few more weeks—or years—so I can enjoy Kyle without the looming presence of my father.

The fact is, though, there is a constant and growing knot in my stomach with the anticipation of confronting my father over Kyle, a festering dread that I’d rather face head-on.

I march for the front door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait,” Kyle calls out in a rush, just before my finger hits the doorbell. He squeezes his eyes shut. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet. About Eric. About what happened to him. About what I did.” His jaw clenches.

And the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with unease.