Echo (Black Lotus #2)(57)

“But what about down there?” I look down to the house as he continues, “Why can’t you find that inside those walls?”

“Because inside those walls lies the truth. And the truth is . . . evil does exist, and innocence is just a fable.”

“Life is whatever you want it to be, sweetheart.”

“I don’t believe that,” I tell him. “I don’t believe we are stronger than the forces of this world.”

“Maybe not, but I’d like to think of my little girl as someone who would fight for her fairytale.”

“I’ve fought my whole life, Daddy. I’m ready to throw in the towel and give up.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Turning my head, I see Declan standing off in the distance.

“I’m not crazy,” I instantly defend.

He begins walking towards me. “I didn’t say you were.”

But if I did what my soul is screaming for me to do, he would. Because right now, the emptiness that refills what my father just warmed makes me want to cry out at the top of my lungs for him to come back. It roils inside of me, panging on the strings of my heart, but I mask it for fear of completely breaking down.

Declan sits next to me, and I deflect, teasing, “You just might destroy those slacks, sitting in the slushy dirt with me.”

He looks at me, and his expression is hard to read, but it’s almost despondent.

When he doesn’t speak, I ask, “Why have you been hiding in your office?”

“Why have you been hiding out here?” he counters.

“I asked first.”

Taking a deep breath, he admits, “Honestly . . . It makes me nervous to be around you.”

“Why?”

He pulls his knees up and rests his arms over them as he explains, “Because I don’t know you. I feel like I know the character you played—I know Nina. She made me comfortable. But you . . . I don’t know you, and that makes me nervous.”

But before I can speak, he says, “Now it’s your turn to answer. Who were you talking to?”

Casting my eyes away from him, I reveal, “My dad,” and wait for his response, but what he says next surprises me.

“What did he have to say?”

Shifting my attention back to Declan, he looks sincere in wanting to know, so I give it to him. “He told me I need to be stronger.”

“Will you tell me about him?” he asks, and then smirks, adding, “The truth this time.”

“What I used to tell you about him, the way he comforted me, the way you two resemble each other, it was all true, Declan. The lie was the Kansas story. Truth is, we lived in Northbrook. He was a great dad. I never had to question his love for me because he gave it endlessly.” Thoughts from the past pile up, and I smile when I tell him, “The reason my favorite flower is the pink daisy, is because that’s what he would always buy me.”

My chest tugs when the memories fall from my eyes and roll down my cheeks.

“We used to have these tea parties. I’d dress up and he’d join me, pretending to eat the little plastic pastries.” I wipe my tears, saying, “I never asked about my mom. I never really thought about her because my dad was more than enough. I never felt like I was missing anything.”

“You mentioned he went to prison,” he says, and I nod.

“Yeah,” I respond and sniff before explaining, “He was caught for gun trafficking. I was five when the cops arrested him in front of me. The vision of my dad on his knees, being handcuffed, and promising me that everything would be okay is still so vivid in my mind.”

“So what happened?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I resign, “That was it. I never saw him again. I went into foster care and had the shittiest of caseworkers out there. He went to Menard Prison, and I wound up in Posen, which was five hours away.”

“Nobody ever took you to go see him?”

“No. My caseworker barely made time to come see me, let alone drive me across the state. But she did make the time to come tell me when my dad had been killed in a knife fight.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

He reaches out and takes my hand, turning my palm up. His voice is gentle when he says, “You didn’t answer me when I asked you this before, but I need to know.” He then drags his thumb over the faint white scars on my wrist. “Tell me how you got these.”

My head drops in embarrassment, not wanting to add another layer of disgust on top of everything else he knows about me. With my hand still in his, he takes his other and covers my wrist with it. When I look into his eyes, he urges, “I want you to tell me.”

So, I take a hard swallow and muster up what strength I can to confine the pain. It takes me a moment, and after a measured breath, I cut through another wound and allow it to bleed out for Declan. “When I wasn’t in the basement, I was in the closet. My foster dad would tie me up with his leather belt to the garment rod in the closet beneath the stairs and lock me up.”

“Jesus,” he mutters in disbelief. “How long would you . . . ?”

“Every weekend. I’d go in on Friday and come out Sunday. Sometimes I’d be in there during the weeknights. But during the summers, it was constant. I’d be in there three to five days at a time. He’d let me out long enough to go down in the basement, but then he’d tie me back up and lock the door again.”