Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
He places the gun on the table between us and doesn’t say a thing. My heart is racing, and I think, This is it. He knows I’m not Nate and he’s going to question me with a gun to my head. I’ll tell him everything because at least then
I can confront him about the games he’s been playing.
But then I notice the trigger lock is still on.
I stare at the gun, then finally look into Marcus’s eyes.
“You went into our closet,” he says. Shit. How did he know? What did I miss when I put everything back? Marcus bends over
and picks up the cardboard box the gun was stashed in from under the table.
Under the recessed lights of the kitchen, I can see the layer of dust on top of it. And the handprints on it. There’s more
on the side where I pulled it down. He must have been in there changing and saw the handprints. Of course.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He stares at me, and the longer he stares, the more ashamed I feel.
“Your mom and I give you and Easton a lot of privacy. We respect your privacy and expect the same from you both.”
I nod. Somehow this scolding feels worse than anything my parents ever did.
Usually with them it was only yelling. Marcus’s calmness is what’s so unsettling.
It’s kind of like Valencia last night. He should be yelling but he’s so damn composed it’s freaking me out.
Especially because I’ve seen his short temper in action with the
paint. And how pissed off he was about the gas being left on.
I don’t know what to say, and the silence between us is making me feel even more uncomfortable.
“It’s normal,” I finally land on. “Having trust issues after everything that happened. I mean, Dr. Z says it is.” Yes, falling
back on my therapy is a great excuse. Use trauma as a shield and everyone will feel bad and shy away from scolding me for
breaking rules and being an asshole. I wonder if that can work with admitting I’m not Nate.
“And that’s why we’re talking about this,” Marcus says. “We understand that, but we have rules in this house—and we’ve been
following them on our end. Your mother didn’t know about your go bag until she saw you with it.”
So she did tell him.
“All we’re asking is that you respect our privacy on your end, too.”
I nod while I anxiously pull at my fingers under the table. “I’m sorry. I won’t go into your room again without permission.”
I’m kind of banking on the hope that he doesn’t know I also went into his office.
He nods and looks down at the gun again. “We bought it after you disappeared.”
That’s something I notice about Marcus and Valencia.
They both keep saying I disappeared, not that I was kidnapped.
Easton is more up-front about it, like he doesn’t think it’s awkward to talk about.
Maybe because he understands it’s best to confront things head-on while Valencia and Marcus are more cautious around my supposed traumas.
“We installed the alarm then, too,” Marcus adds. “Your mother got paranoid and became overprotective of Easton. We all went
to family therapy a couple of times—it was when Easton was a teen and he wanted to be able to go out and do normal things
that teens do. Your mom was scared to let him go to dances, after-school events, hang out with his friends. Eventually she
found ways to deal with her anxiety, but I can see the patterns repeating.”
Patterns? What kind of things did she do to Easton to keep him home? And would she go as far as creating trouble—gas leaks,
paint vandalism, killing her plants—to keep me trapped in the house? But that would fly right in the face of her saying she
understood about my go bag.
“I get that all this is new and scary for you, but I still think respecting our privacy is healthy, and Dr. Zapata would agree.
But feel free to let me know if she has other thoughts.”
“Okay. And I’m sorry again.”
He picks up the gun and holds it in his hand, staring at it. “When Easton was fourteen, I took him to the range and taught
him how to use this safely. I should probably do the same with you.”
Is this some father-son bonding moment? Are we supposed to go to the gun range and shoot a few targets and talk about girls?
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m a little freaked out by guns.”
He places it back in the shoebox and puts the lid on. “That’s how you get not freaked out. By learning how to safely use it.” With that, he says he’s going to go to bed. He stands and walks behind me, then stops at the doorway.
“Listen,” he says. “Your mom’s trying. Earlier I mentioned the repeating patterns, but she is trying. So be patient with her, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He pauses and thinks for a moment. “With me, too. I know you don’t remember my parents, but they weren’t as . . .” He grins.
“Direct as Gramma Sharon.”
I laugh. “Is anyone?”
“No.” He comes back and puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, like he’s trying to tell me something. Maybe a warning?
But then he kisses the top of my head. “Night, kiddo.”
“Good night.”
I listen to his footsteps go up the stairs to their bedroom.