80. Daisy
Chapter 80
Daisy
I sat outside the bungalow and forced myself to take deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves before knocking on the door. It was almost Christmas, and the Blades compound was all decked out for the holidays, a giant pine tree outside the main building decorated with outdoor lights, plastic ornaments scattered in the trees on the narrow road to Mac’s place.
I’d gotten a few surprised looks as I’d driven past the main building but no one had stopped me, and I’d bumped over the dirt road for about two minutes before reaching the turnoff to Mac’s house, nestled in the woods.
Jace had told me how to find it. He’d even offered to come with me — all the Beasts had — but this felt like something I had to do alone. Besides, they’d been through enough in the weeks since they’d killed Arlo and Gray. It had taken more than one round of questioning by the police and all the evidence we had — which was admittedly all circumstantial — to get the police to admit they weren’t going to press charges.
The bullet in Otis’ leg and the condition Ruth and I were in had made it pretty clear who the bad guys were in the home invasion.
Rafe and his friends hadn’t gotten off scot-free either. Ballistics tied one of their guns to the bullets that had killed Piers Cantwell, and they’d told the Beasts that the hassle was a debt they’d come to collect one day.
It seemed impossible that Rafe, Nolan, and Jude could ever need anything from anybody, but I couldn’t really blame them for holding it over the Beasts' heads. They’d saved Otis, and for that I owed them a debt too.
I’d spent more than one sleepless night worried the Beasts would get sent back to jail, but thanks to the leads the Beasts had provided on the missing girls and the lawyer my dad had paid for, they were finally in the clear.
Piers’ death was all over the news. The tragic and shocking murder of the business titan and his son in a small mountain town at the hands of three convicted killers was too titillating for the media to ignore, and the internet had gone wild with speculation about the murders and whether they were connected to the missing girls.
For now the police were playing their cards close to their vests. I’d gotten used to hearing, “This is an active investigation.” Eventually, I just stopped paying attention.
The Beasts — my Beasts — were free men. The threats against us — all of us — were gone. For now at least.
That was all that mattered.
Which didn’t mean we still didn’t have questions.
I got out of the car and made my way up the stairs to Mac’s porch. The bungalow was small but well maintained, the white paint fresh, the floorboards on the porch solid. I wondered how long he’d been living alone out here instead of in the dorm buildings with the rest of the Blades. I wondered if he ever missed his old friends Arlo and Michael.
I wondered if he missed my mom.
I knocked on the door and waited, but it only took a few seconds for him to open the door. He stood there in faded jeans and a T-shirt, his shaggy blond hair a little messy.
His blue eyes studied me for a long moment before he stood back to open the door wider. “I wondered when you’d come.”
I stepped into the house and looked around. It was like the outside: compact but neat. The walls were paneled with warm wood and a fire crackled in a fireplace against one wall. A plaid sofa faced a TV, and a stack of books and a coffee mug sat on a worn coffee table. Beyond the living room, I saw the white tile of a sun-drenched kitchen.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee? Water? Beer?”
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
“Have a seat,” he said.
I sat on an overstuffed chair near the fireplace and waited while he settled back on the couch.
“You aren’t surprised to see me,” I said, because that much was obvious.
He shook his head. “Only a matter of time.”
“You could’ve told me,” I said. “After she died, or… at least once I got older.”
“Wasn’t my story to tell.” He took a drink from the mug and cradled it in his hands. “Not that part anyway.”
“You loved her,” I said. It wasn’t really a question in my mind. I just needed to hear him say it before I asked my other question, the big one.
His nod was slow, but when he spoke, his voice was fierce. “Like I’ve never loved anyone or anything.”
The words, the way he said them, caused tears to spring to my eyes. My mom had deserved this kind of love, the kind of love that was stronger than time, stronger than death. She’d had it and she’d turned away from it, something I would never understand.
I was sorry for Mac, living out here in the woods all alone, the ghosts of his past — the ghost of his one great love — all around.
I reached into the pocket of my coat and withdrew the letter I’d found in my baby book, then handed it to him.
He looked down at it, touched the singed edges. I felt the weight of the past when he opened, then when he closed it a minute later.
“I think she’d want you to have it,” I said.
He nodded, his gaze clouded, like he was someplace else. Someplace far away.
“Are you…” I stumbled over the words. “Are you my biological father, Mac?”
I didn’t use the word dad . I probably never would, not with Mac, even if it turned out to be true.
Cassie had been right: I had a dad.
He wasn’t perfect. We would never agree on everything and we had a long way to go to heal our relationship, but he’d been there. Maybe not in all the ways I wanted and maybe not for everything, but he’d been there when it counted, through all the monotony of my childhood, and he’d come running when Ruth and I needed him.
“I don’t actually know,” he said.
I drew in a breath. I’d imagined a lot of scenarios, but this wasn’t one of them. “Did she know?”
“She said she wasn’t sure,” Mac said. “I didn’t care either way. I would have raised you. Loved you, loved her.”
“But she stayed with my dad.”
“She stayed with your dad,” Mac repeated. “I don’t think she knew how to be anyone but Eleanor Mercer Hammond.”
My mind spun with new questions. Had my mom known who my biological father was and chosen not to tell Mac? Had she told my dad there were doubts about my paternity?
“I’m… I'm sorry,” I said, because I was sorry.
For Mac, who’d loved a woman who didn’t choose him.
For my mom, who had everything and still hadn’t known what she’d wanted.
For my dad, who’d loved a woman who would never love him the most.
“It was a long time ago,” Mac said.
But the pain in his eyes said it wasn’t as long as it seemed. That at times like this, the past was closer than ever.
I looked down at my hands. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” When I looked up, his blue eyes were kind, his voice gentle. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”
I nodded and stood to leave. “Thanks for talking to me.”
I wanted to know more: about the friendship between Mac, Michael, and Arlo, about Arlo and Michael and their feelings for my mom, about what had happened after high school.
But it seemed cruel to ask. Mac had loved my mom. He’d loved Jace enough to take him in, raise him like a son when Arlo took off to work with Piers while Piers built his empire.
That part of the story wasn’t mine. Besides, I was starting to think not every story needed to be told.
Mac opened the door and I stepped out onto the porch.
“Do you want to know?” I asked, turning to look at him.
He studied me. “Do you?”
I thought about it, then sighed. “I don’t know.”
“When you do — if you do — let me know. We can do whatever you want.”
I nodded. “Am I like her?” It was the only question I had left that I felt entitled to ask.
He smiled for the first time. “From what I can see, in all the best ways.”
“And the other ways? The ones that weren’t all the best?”
His expression softened. “I don’t know you well, Daisy, but it seems to me like you know exactly what you want.”
I swallowed around the emotion in my throat. He was right.
I knew what I wanted.
And they were waiting.