The Perfect Son by Freida McFadden(48)

“I only did it to protect you. Because I love you.”

She was protecting me because she loves me. The same way I want to protect Liam, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Even if he doesn’t love me. Even if he can’t. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, darling. What is it?”

“What was my father like?”

“What… what do you mean?”

“His personality. What was he like?”

“Oh.” She hesitates. “Well, he was… very charming. As you can imagine. All the women loved him. Liam, I think, takes after him in looks. Don’t you think?”

I think he takes after him in more than looks. That’s what I’m afraid of, anyway.

“Would you say he was… manipulative?”

My mother’s laugh sounds hollow. “He manipulated me into marrying him, that’s for sure. It was… well, I don’t want to say it was mistake because I got you. But he wasn’t a good husband, even before.”

“Why not?”

“He was just very self-absorbed. He wasn’t really ready to settle down. He wasn’t the sort of man who wanted to stay in on a Saturday night and watch television. He always wanted to be out doing something. And when we had a child, that only made it worse.”

I take a breath. “Was he cruel to you?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Yes, he certainly could be. Very cruel.” She sighs. “He just wasn’t a good person, Erika. Probably the best thing that ever happened was him exiting our lives. He wouldn’t have been a good father.”

I look down at the photograph in my hand. My mother has answered some of my questions, but I have more. I have a feeling that the only way I can possibly understand my son is to understand my father.

And there’s only one way to do that.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “I better go now.”

“Are you okay, Erika? You sound funny.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have they found that girl yet who went missing? Such a tragedy.”

“I’ve got to go, Mom,” I choke out.

I hang up the phone before my mother can ask again if I’m okay. I’m not okay. I don’t know if things will ever be okay again.

I stare at my phone for a moment. I feel slightly calmer. It must be the Xanax.

I looked back at my list of calls from the last several days. I select Frank Marino’s number from the list before I can chicken out. I’ve got a new job for Frank.

After five rings, when I’m about to give up, Frank picks up the phone. “Erika! What’s going on? Your little town is all over the news.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard. Frank hasn’t mentioned Liam, which means his name isn’t in the news. Of course, since he’s underage, the media can’t mention him by name. But I have a feeling if he gets arrested, it will all come out somehow. The media can’t mention Liam’s name, but it can trend on Twitter or be shared on Facebook. Or whatever it is people do on Instagram. “Frank, I need you to find somebody for me.”

“Find somebody?”

“Yes, like where he lives. An address.” I take a deep breath. “His name is Marvin Holick.”

“Okay…”

“Just so you know,” I say, “he’s my father.”





Chapter 42


Olivia



I don’t think he’s coming back tonight.

Part of me is scared maybe he’ll never come back. Not that I want to see him—the thought of seeing him again makes me physically ill—but I’ve only got left three slices of bread, one apple, and one bottle of water. I’m doing my best to hold off on eating or drinking, but my throat is painfully parched. All I want is to guzzle the entire bottle, but I know that would be stupid.

What if he doesn’t come back for two or three more days? Then what?

If he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll die.

I can’t let that happen.

I’m making some progress with the mound I’m building. It’s hard to tell how big I need to make it, because I can’t actually see where the trap door is aside from that tiny dim slice of light that disappears entirely at night. It’s very hard to tell how high up it is. Also, I am essentially doing this blind. The hole is pitch black—it makes no difference if my eyes are open or closed.

And I’m so weak. All I want to do is lie on the ground and sleep. It would be easy to do. To let starvation and dehydration take me.

Every time that happens, I think about my parents. My friends. My bedroom.

But I can’t think about it too hard, or else I’ll start crying.

I’ve been doing all the digging with my fingers, and now they’ve become painful and raw. I can’t see what they look like, because I have no light, but I imagine they’re very red. I imagine pinpoints of blood.

I pat the mound with my palms. It’s not big enough—I can tell that much. It needs to be at least a few inches higher. I scrape at the ground with my fingers and wince. God, my fingers hurt. I don’t know what’s worse—my fingers or my ankle.

If only I had a tool to help me dig.

I’ve got the empty water bottle. That’s better than nothing, but it’s hard to grip. And other than that, the only thing down here even resembling a tool is…