Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
GIA
Three days later…
PsychoDad: Did you rat on me? Or did that Hurst boy?
After Dad bullied Misty into giving him my number, the texts had been a constant attack. At first, I ignored them. Then I told him to stop.
“No” should’ve been enough. It never was with him. I wanted to block him, but Misty begged me not to in case something important happened to Mama.
A part of me wondered who ratted on him and what even got reported. Maybe animal cruelty or inappropriate drug withdrawal times before sending cows for slaughter? Maybe his abuse of Mama? I was kind of hopeful on the last.
PsychoDad: If you don’t tell me who ratted I won’t reinstate Misty and your mother’s health insurance.
I glanced at Misty in the passenger seat.
Even the seatbelt and blanket tucked around her legs seemed to swallow up her shrunken frame.
Her beanie was pulled low to hide her balding scalp.
She lacked the energy to even pencil in eyebrows.
The last few days had been brutal, filled with constant nausea and exhaustion.
Her skin had taken on that washed-out gray pallor that made my chest ache every time I looked at her.
I couldn’t understand why her doctors were pushing another round of treatment when it seemed to do nothing except steal whatever strength she had left.
But stopping treatment meant surrender. And Misty wasn’t ready to stop.
Without insurance there’d be a short grace period, then nothing. The state might cover hospice, but not chemo. I could try to find another policy, but no company in their right mind would touch a diagnosis like hers.
That was the cruel genius of my father. He always found the exact place to press the knife. Ironically, there wasn’t much else he could hold over me.
Then my phone rang. PsychoDad lit up the screen.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like falling.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hear his voice. Couldn’t hear that smooth, vicious calm he used right before he struck. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and let it ring.
An old country song drifted softly through the speakers.
It told of something heartbreakingly tender about love lost and roads not taken.
My mind went straight to Timothy. I’d made such a mess of things.
Regret sat heavy in my chest. Worse than the regret was the silence.
Days had passed without a text or call from him.
But…he hadn’t left me alone entirely. The morning after I bolted, a florist delivered a single yellow rose to my front door with a note that said only: Forever, R.
I’d cried big hard tears at that. He forgave me even though I didn’t forgive myself for hurting him.
Other little things had shown up. A breakfast sandwich and coffee waiting at work after a long overnight a few days ago.
Then there was the hand drawn sign from Sofia that asked me to be her friend along with a worn little stuffed horse that appeared two days ago.
Accompanying that was a handwritten invite to Sunday dinner with the Hurst family.
I didn’t know if I could go, nor if I should.
Two hours later, Misty had blood drawn, another round of labs run, and a drug cocktail dripping steadily into her veins through an IV line taped to the back of her hand.
The infusion room was too bright and too quiet at the same time.
Reclining hospital beds lined the walls, separated by thin curtains that did nothing to hide the reality of the place.
Three other patients sat hooked to IV poles, staring at their phones, sleeping, or simply enduring.
Misty had her headphones on and her eyes closed, curled beneath a warmed blanket that made her look fragile in a way I hated seeing.
I leaned over and pointed toward the door, mouthing coffee and giving her the call-me hand sign.
She yanked one headphone off dramatically. “There’s no dignity in this death-by-poison bullshit.”
She’d said that as if the words were a joke she’d practiced.
I sat carefully on the edge of her bed and took her hand in both of mine. Her skin felt cool and papery now, the bones more noticeable than they used to be.
“We can stop,” I said quietly. “If this isn’t what you want anymore, we’ll stop.”
Her expression softened a little, but she didn’t interrupt me.
“I thought you wanted to get through at least one more treatment and see if the tests show it’s working.
” I swallowed around the thickness in my throat.
“If you decide you’re done…” I squeezed her fingers gently.
“I’ll drive you to the Grand Canyon myself and let you drive my car right off the edge. ”
That got the ghost of a smile out of her.
“I won’t go with you, though,” I added, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m still attached to living.”
Her smile widened faintly. “That’s right. You’ve got a Hurst to wrangle.”
A laugh escaped me, soft and tired. “I’m not sure it’ll work out with him.”
“Why not? He’s hot as hell. He seems like the kind who’d be real athletic between the sheets.” She got a superior smile when my face flushed. “Knew it. That man’s got it real bad for you.”
I rolled my eyes automatically, even as warmth stirred painfully in my chest. “How would you know?”
“He stopped by while you were at work the other day.” She settled deeper into the pillow. “Claimed he was checking out the air conditioner.” Her look turned smug. “He actually wanted to check you out.”
Something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “I only embarrassed you a little.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What did you do?”
“I told him he better get his shit together and make a move before you find someone else.”
I groaned, covering my face with one hand.
Beside me, Misty laughed softly for the first time all day, and hearing it felt precious.
“Go.” She waved me away. “You’re interrupting my podcast.”
I wandered out of the treatment room to grab coffee, desperate for five minutes away from the intensity of the waiting.
As I rounded the corner from oncology toward the cafeteria, I stopped.
Dad paced straight toward me. His muddy work boots pounded the floor.
That cold, calculating smile—the one that never reached his eyes, the one that usually came right before pain—slid across his face.
Behind him a rough-looking man in a McClary farm hat dragged far enough behind that I couldn’t make out more than broad shoulders. New hired muscle, apparently.
Dad’s smile sharpened. “Exactly who I needed to see.”
My pulse kicked hard, but years of practice locked my face into the same blank mask I’d learned to wear as a child, the one that revealed nothing, gave him nothing to use.
“I’m not interested in talking to you today.” I stepped left to go around him.
“I don’t care.” His hand clamped around my arm like a vise.
Before I could wrench free, he dragged me into an empty hospital room. Every muscle in my body went tight. I ripped my arm backward, but he yanked me close enough for me to smell stale tobacco and cruelty.
“I ended their health insurance.”
I finally tore loose and put distance between us—three fast steps, enough space to dodge a swing if it came. My heart hammered, but not from fear of his blackmail. That trick had lost its teeth years ago. Violence? That was always worth fearing. Manipulation? Less and less.
I folded my arms tight across my chest. “The only people you hurt with that are Misty and Mama. Not me.” I kept my tone cold enough to frost glass.
“I don’t need your money. I don’t want the farm.
I don’t need your insurance. I love Misty and Mama.
I care what happens to them. But I can’t control whether you choose to punish them. ”
His jaw ticked. “Were you the one that called the DEA on me?”
My mind rushed again through the few reasons anyone would call the DEA. Selling drugs, buying drugs, using drugs…maybe growing drugs? I shook my head. “What are you doing that the DEA would be interested in?”
“Then it was the fucking Hursts. You’re a McClary, which means you’re going to help me bury every last one of them.”
He took a step forward. My body moved before my mind did—one step back, shoulders tightening, and lungs bracing for impact.
“I already said no.” My voice sharpened. “Whatever sick vendetta you’ve got against them, that’s yours and not mine.”
His expression changed. It went wild around the edges, but underneath it was something worse. Calculation. This was the look he got right before he found the cruelest possible knife and twisted.
“I know you and Timothy Hurst have been screwing again,” he said softly. “You did long ago and you’re back at it. If you don’t find out if he’s the one who called the DEA and ruined my extra income source, I’ll hurt his daughter.”
Everything inside me recoiled.
Then went molten. A roaring heat climbed my spine so fast it made my hands shake.
My eyes flicked past him to the shadowed man lingering just outside the doorway, silent and watching. Muscle or witness, I didn’t know. Didn’t care.
When I looked back at my father, every ounce of my fear was gone.
“If you lay one hand on that child,” my voice dropped low, deadly calm, “every Hurst in the county will fill you so full of holes they’ll need a shovel to bury what’s left.”
I stepped toward him. For the first time in my life, he stepped back.
“There’s not a cop in this state who’d arrest them for protecting that sweet little girl from you.”
Another step. “If they somehow miss—”
I got close enough to watch the confidence flicker in his eyes. My smile was colder than his had been. “I’ll put a bullet through your skull myself.”
One more step. Close enough to whisper. “There’s one thing you taught me well—”
I leaned in.
“I never miss.”