The New Husband(47)

I decided to tell Ben, because I simply had to tell someone. If I didn’t, I think I might have exploded, had some sort of freakish meltdown, gone all Exorcist (saw the movie on Netflix, super creepy!), and for sure my dad didn’t want that to happen. I knew Ben could keep the secret the way I knew that one plus one equals two. Besides, I was basically doing what my dad asked by not telling Mom or Connor, who I think were his real concern. So Ben knew, my father didn’t know I had told him, and I was fine with all my justifications.

I was with Ben in the library, working on a science lab that was worth 20 percent of our grade, which meant I was getting an A. Ben was as good at science as he was at math, not that I was any slouch. Together we formed an unstoppable team.

We used a basal thermometer and stopwatch to conduct our experiments on the effects stress had on body temperature. We had asked our test subjects (who included Mom, Connor, and Ben’s parents—but not Simon) to rate their stress levels on a scale of 1 to 15. We then recorded their body temperatures (yes, we had the thermometer properly sanitized each time). Next, we asked our subjects to put a stack of mixed-up numbered pages one through fifty, in sequential order, on a time limit. We told them to get as far as they could, as fast as they could, while a timer was counting down. Stressful, right? We then re-measured body temperature and recorded the results. Turned out that in most cases, stress did raise the body temp a few tenths of a degree.

We had charts and graphs and all that impressive-looking stuff. I was going to take it home, type up our conclusion, add some finishing touches, and 20 percent of our grade would be secure. But we were having a hard time focusing on the lab because my own stress was burning me up. I kept checking my phone every two seconds, hoping my dad (aka Tracy Nuts) had responded to the dozen or so messages I’d sent. All of my communications were variations on the same theme: Dad is that you? Please message me back. Daddy I need to hear from you. I love you so much. Are you okay?

“Don’t you think you should tell someone, like your mom, for instance?” Ben asked.

He had a Web browser open on the library computer, researching terms like “serotonin” and “hyperthyroidism,” looking to bolster our conclusion with the biological reason why our temps rise under stress.

“I can’t,” I said. “He was really, really specific about it. It’s bad enough I told you.”

I showed Ben the Talkie to Me request he’d sent as a reminder.

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

It was a bit embarrassing to share my dad’s goodnight routine with Ben, but it was proof, or so I thought.

“My parents say stuff to me like that,” he revealed, sensing my discomfort.

I hated that now I was suddenly filled with doubt. What if it was a trick?

“So, what are you going to do?” Ben asked.

“I’m going to wait for him to contact me. I can’t risk it,” I said, sick to my stomach at the thought of losing my father again.

“Why do you think he doesn’t want you to tell your mom or Connor?”

“Connor is easy,” I said. “He’d blab to Mom for sure. He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it. Dad knows that.”

“So why not your mom?”

“That’s the big question,” I said, feeling frustrated. “I don’t know. He must have done something bad, something that forced him to go into hiding.”

Ben clicked through links about human anatomy, absorbing information at the speed of a computer. “Any ideas?”

“He was having an affair. Maybe something about her?”

I wished more than anything that I had the answer. I mean, what could make a devoted father, one who had kids who loved him, a wife who loved him, a great dog, and a great life, up and leave it? Not a word good-bye. Nothing. I said all this to Ben and we tried to piece it together.

“Let’s make a list,” he suggested.

And so we did.

The other woman.

Dad’s bank job.



That was it, that was the extent of our list.

“Not very helpful,” said Ben, looking it over.

“Not at all,” I agreed. “Why not just run away? Why this whole elaborate setup with Daisy in the boat, cutting himself with a knife to make it look like some kind of fatal accident or something?”

“Maybe there was another person involved. Maybe he got cut in a fight, but maybe something worse happened to the other guy … or girl.”

“Gross! So my dad’s a murderer? You think he killed that waitress he was seeing?” I was horrified at the thought.

“We don’t know, is all I’m saying,” said Ben. “And anyway, let’s say he committed some crime, something really terrible, maybe related to his bank job, maybe not—why reappear now?”

“Maybe he knows we’re in danger,” I said. “Maybe he’s been secretly tracking us, and he knows Simon is some kind of freak.”

As if summoned by magic, Simon came strolling into the library, hands clasped behind his back, looking real casual. He came over as if there was nothing wrong, like that dumb family meeting had fixed all our problems.

“Hey there, Maggie. Hi, Ben,” he said, talking in that hushed library tone that wasn’t nearly as quiet as people thought it was. “Happy accident running into you two. Say, do you have a few minutes to chat since we’re both here?”