Chapter Thirty-One #2
“And what about Porter?” I asked. “What did he tell you?”
“He told me Elyse is doing well.” A leading statement that I didn’t want to fall for, but I bit the inside of my cheek at the mention of her name and he knew. “You care about her, I see.”
“I know her. Why are you so obsessed with her? You used to only let Dominic visit, and now anyone who knows to mention her gets a free pass to Edgar Valley?”
“You say that as if it’s a secret password.
I’m not interested in performing a song and dance for fanatics.
Until recently, those were the only letters I received.
I have lost all connection to my family, my daughter.
Elyse Abbington is my daughter’s age, living with a connected past. I am confined in this prison and I admit that I’ve been tempted to entertain her as a proxy for my Marin. ”
“You would have killed her if she was there that day.”
“Of course,” he said, like whatever point I was trying to make was frivolous. “That’s why I find such interest in her. Marin is the one I created on purpose; she is the one I created by accident.”
That took me aback. Had he just summarized my infatuation with Elyse as well?
The idea that our lives were both shaped so significantly by him, yet so different.
Some kind of nature-versus-nurture experiment, but more like unyielding exposure to him versus one life-altering moment at his hands.
And now what? He was waiting in his cell to see which one of us he had screwed up more?
Desperate for any crumbs on Elyse, counting the days until I returned.
“If you miss your daughter so much,” I said, “why did you arrange for her to disappear? Why would you do that if you didn’t want to lose her?”
“I didn’t want anyone getting to that.” He tapped on the glass toward my face. It wasn’t until he then pointed to his own temple that I knew what he meant: my mind. “She was as I wanted her to be.”
I hated how he was looking at me, so proud.
Was that the reason? Why he had worked with James Calhoun to make me disappear?
Not because I was a witness he was worried about.
Certainly not because he wanted me to have a chance at a normal life.
It was something far more insidious. I was his investment.
He’d put everything he had into me and had been waiting all these years for the return, literally and figuratively.
And I was giving him exactly what he wanted. I had returned…and I was ready to kill.
No. I stopped myself. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t like that. I was nothing like he was imagining me to be. If I was so impeccably trained, then how had Natalie gotten the better of me so easily? How had she taken down this infallible evil offspring? Again.
If I were anything like him, I would have killed her that last night we were together—claimed self-defense and brought my tally to two before I could even drive. The thought had never crossed my mind. He was wrong…I opened my eyes. “You don’t know anything about your daughter.”
“Perhaps,” he said, beaming, lacking any doubt in his assessment. “Now, what was it you were talking about when you first sat down? You wanted to do something again? Something you had done as a child?”
I glared at him. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t ask for any of this.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispered into the phone, holding my stare with the good eye, the wonky eye keeping steady just a hair off my face. “Listen to it.” He put his hand back up to the glass for mine. “Listen to me.”
The shift had been enough—enough for me to think, enough for me to trust my own read, enough to see his desperation. He was desperate for me to be like him. It was all he had. His life’s work. It was all he wanted now and he was right; his want was a weakness. His weakness.
I didn’t reach for his hand. Instead I jerked my body and hung up the phone—a poignant smack that released me from the moment.
“Stop!” he shouted, but to me, on the other side of the glass, it was as if he’d only mouthed it—what he wanted and what I wanted, structurally shielded from each other. It was the type of perfect metaphor that could give me hives.
I stood up and he slammed his fist against the glass. A guard appeared out of nowhere behind him, but Abel shot him a look, not struggling to find power even in the confines of prison. The officer backed off and I ran away before my father could turn around.
What I had sought from my father was a sort of reawakening, a belief that I had to go back to that place to be this person, but now I emerged with the clarity to see that I was his child, not his clone. He didn’t define me and I didn’t need his influence. I could do this my way—on my own.
I didn’t want to kill Natalie. This was not a craving I had; no beings were telling me to do it; there was no impulse a tinfoil hat or a strong antipsychotic could subdue.
I’d been raised with the tools to get it done, not born with the need to do it.
The result would be the same, but to me, the distinction was cathartic.
This was my choice; this was premeditated, and the only person telling me to do it was me.
And maybe Elyse. There had been dead bodies everywhere my whole life, but she was my victim. I couldn’t let her go over this ledge. I owed her this.
And I owed it to Natalie. She had killed three people. Maybe more. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since I was thirteen, but I knew her. I knew she couldn’t end up in prison for the rest of her life. Whatever she had done, whatever she had yet to do, I could not let her end up locked up again.