White Rabbit(39)
“April’s respectable friends were dealing drugs, you stupid asshole!” I hiss back savagely, the pressure in my chest strangling my voice.
Peter blinks once, twice, and then actually shakes his head like a dog trying to cast off water. “No. No, that is … it’s … disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourself. Fox Whitney was a—”
“Fox Whitney was a drug dealer. Your daughter was dating a drug dealer.” I pronounce the words as sharply as I can, imagining the syllables as fists slamming into Peter’s body. “That house looked like a fucking crack den when we showed up, and when we dragged April out of a pool of blood in Fox’s kitchen, she was so damn stoned that even she’s not sure she didn’t—”
“That is … that is a monstrous lie,” Peter gasps out. “How dare you—”
“The sheriff is probably real busy right now, bagging up about four hundred little white pills that were lying around at the respectable party April was having with all the good kids she runs around with—”
“You shut your mouth,” Peter growls furiously, his face bright red. “I have had it with you and your underhanded mother trying to ruin my life, trying to sabotage my family and jeopardize everything I care about! I will get a copy of your statement from the police, and if I find out that you lied, that you … did something to put April in danger, I swear, I—I’ll…”
He raises a fist halfway into the air, his hand trembling. In all the times we’ve faced off, all the times Peter has threatened me, physical violence has never entered the equation; he’s bigger than me, his rages worse than mine, but I’ve never been truly afraid he might hurt me. Until right now, when I can see the depth of his loathing in eyes that look exactly like my own. He really wants to do it.
My voice embarrassingly small, I whisper, “Go ahead. Any lies I told, I told to protect April. But go ahead—give me a reason to call for Detective Lehmann so I can tell him what I really know.”
It’s a bluff—obviously—but Peter isn’t so sure; and for all his talk about April being a “good kid,” the doubt and fear that flash across his face tell me he honestly isn’t sure that she didn’t do it after all. In fact, he’s terrified that she did.
He lets me go. Stepping back, his face pale, he sucks a breath of air through his nostrils and then stabs an unsteady finger at me. “You stay away from my family. I’ll get a restraining order if I have to, but you stay away.”
Then he storms out of the bathroom and back into the hallway, slamming the door shut again behind him.
I just stand there after he’s left, trying to get myself back under control, quaking all over as tears clog my eyes and start to roll. The fear and anger that have been warring inside me are discharging like faulty wiring, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m furious with myself for letting Peter push me to the point where I can’t cope—humiliated by my impotence. I slam a fist into the space beside the light switch over and over until I feel the pain, until the drywall buckles and the skin across my knuckles splits and I have to wash the blood away in the sink.
As the water slips through my fingers, I think about just how much of my father is written into my DNA. I see him in the mirror every day—but it’s what we share on the inside that casts the longest shadow over me. Every time my anger opens up, every time I feel it speeding through my veins, hear it thundering in my ears, it’s one more reminder of Peter Covington. His influence works on me, unseen, like the moon pulling at the tides; and every day I struggle to remember that we are separate planets.
My knuckles stinging, I snatch up some paper towels, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. Only then do I finally exit the bathroom.
Sebastian is waiting for me in the lobby, his eyes fixed on the television behind the front desk. He gives me a strange look as I approach, and I wonder if the stress of the past few minutes is as readable in my hot, blotchy face as it feels. Mustering my voice, I begin, “Are you done? Because I’m really ready to get the hell out of—”
“Rufus,” Sebastian interrupts, his voice grave. “Look.”
He directs my attention to the TV screen, where a local newscaster with great masses of hair is already in the midst of a report, peering earnestly into the camera. “—update on that house fire on Banfield Crescent. Fire Department officials are telling us that the blaze is now under control, and that early indicators suggest this was indeed a case of arson.” The image cuts to a shot of a grandly gabled home, all peaked roofs and gingerbread trim, about a third of which is a rollicking inferno of bright orange flames. The newscaster’s voice continues over the footage: “It was about two hours ago that the first calls came in to 911, reporting a fire in the high-end enclave of Banfield Crescent. Evidence suggests that the blaze began in the garage and spread quickly; by the time first responders arrived, much of this historic Victorian mansion was in flames.” Another angle on the conflagration, menacing coils of smoke pouring up into the night sky, black on black. “Firefighters were shocked to discover obscenities spray-painted on the house’s front door, an act of vandalism leading many to speculate that the fire had been set deliberately—a situation that officials are now calling ‘likely.’” The shot cuts to a close-up of the whitewashed front door, the obscenities in question apparently so vulgar that they cannot be shown on television; digitally blurred out, they are nothing but a blobby, pinkish smear floating in space. “According to neighbors, the homeowners are out of town for the holiday, and attempts to reach them have so far been unsuccessful. Representatives of the police and fire departments are asking anyone with information to come forward.”