one should trust anyone else. That’s how it works. Don’t blame me, its natural selection or something. Science.”
“You saying I shouldn’t even trust you?” she asked.
“No, not even me.”
“Then why am I here ?”
“Because I’m your father, dammit.”
“David used to tell me I should put up with his shit because he was my husband.”
“Well, you did get a nice beach house out of the deal, and you get the nobility of flaunting the last name of a well-known plastic surgeon. Bet that gets you to the top of the list for dinner reservations.”
“McDonald’s isn’t exactly taking reservations these days, Dad.”
“You always did have a weakness for that drive-through slop.”
“For crying out loud,” she said. “As far as the fucking beach house I live in now, you of all people should know how much I hate the beach.”
“Life’s a funny animal, Sam, but we’re not here to philosophize. I need to know if you’ll help me.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Okay, probably, but you need to admit you have nothing more than a wild hunch here. The crook didn’t trip the security system on entry; they set it off when they left. So I think it’s more likely you were hit by someone you know well; someone who could have found a way to get into your house while you were home and wait for you to leave. Maybe one of your floozies from the bar?”
“That’s what the cops told me,” he said, “and if this had happened to someone else, I’d take that side of the argument, too. But I’m me, and I can’t do that. I know when someone is playing me. And that kid was playing me.”
“All right,” she said, “so what do you want me to do about it?”
With that, he placed his hands on his Samantha’s shoulders to steady her, then told her what he wanted.
CHAPTER 8
A feeling of accomplishment washes over Hannah as she studies her new room. A picture window is flanked by two massive bookshelves, and the spines of her books are organized by color from dark to light. Above her bed, a framed movie poster of Muppets Most Wanted hangs. On the opposite wall, her dresser is adorned with science and math trophies and ribbons. And all of her moving boxes, save one, are down in the basement. She did all the unpacking and organizing and cleaning herself. She worked hard for this. Her room kicks ass.
But her satisfaction doesn’t last long.
Hannah stares at a box next to her bed. The box she’s reluctant to unpack. The box she insisted ride in the trunk of the car rather than the moving truck. And an old Sesame Street song runs through her head.
One of these things does not belong…
This is Father’s fault, she tells herself. She should be happy, exploring her new neighborhood on the Cannondale, taking a walk in the expansive park across the street, or maybe just relaxing on the couch with a few mindless episodes of Regular Show . Instead, she’s thinking about him .
Specifically, she’s thinking about where she’ll keep him.
Kneeling, she slowly peels away packing tape, then pulls the lid flaps up. Many of the things inside the box are innocent enough—sweatshirts and sweaters. But in the center of these plush garments, a cat figurine waits. The statue glistens snow white, but its feline elegance is marred by a slash of black electrical tape across the eyes.
Hannah wonders what will happen if she destroys the cat. She imagines the statue shattering on the floor, then pictures herself swinging a hammer through its head. These thoughts are nothing new, but she never summons the will to make them real.
She can’t bring herself to murder her own father.
* * *
Downstairs, Tina sorts through her belongings as Kevin cuts tape from boxes. Although she’s done more than her share over the last decade, moving is always hard. She hopes this is the last time.
Taking a break from lining up her possessions, she watches Kevin. The way his tongue sticks out of his mouth when he works reminds Tina of Charlie
“You saying I shouldn’t even trust you?” she asked.
“No, not even me.”
“Then why am I here ?”
“Because I’m your father, dammit.”
“David used to tell me I should put up with his shit because he was my husband.”
“Well, you did get a nice beach house out of the deal, and you get the nobility of flaunting the last name of a well-known plastic surgeon. Bet that gets you to the top of the list for dinner reservations.”
“McDonald’s isn’t exactly taking reservations these days, Dad.”
“You always did have a weakness for that drive-through slop.”
“For crying out loud,” she said. “As far as the fucking beach house I live in now, you of all people should know how much I hate the beach.”
“Life’s a funny animal, Sam, but we’re not here to philosophize. I need to know if you’ll help me.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Okay, probably, but you need to admit you have nothing more than a wild hunch here. The crook didn’t trip the security system on entry; they set it off when they left. So I think it’s more likely you were hit by someone you know well; someone who could have found a way to get into your house while you were home and wait for you to leave. Maybe one of your floozies from the bar?”
“That’s what the cops told me,” he said, “and if this had happened to someone else, I’d take that side of the argument, too. But I’m me, and I can’t do that. I know when someone is playing me. And that kid was playing me.”
“All right,” she said, “so what do you want me to do about it?”
With that, he placed his hands on his Samantha’s shoulders to steady her, then told her what he wanted.
CHAPTER 8
A feeling of accomplishment washes over Hannah as she studies her new room. A picture window is flanked by two massive bookshelves, and the spines of her books are organized by color from dark to light. Above her bed, a framed movie poster of Muppets Most Wanted hangs. On the opposite wall, her dresser is adorned with science and math trophies and ribbons. And all of her moving boxes, save one, are down in the basement. She did all the unpacking and organizing and cleaning herself. She worked hard for this. Her room kicks ass.
But her satisfaction doesn’t last long.
Hannah stares at a box next to her bed. The box she’s reluctant to unpack. The box she insisted ride in the trunk of the car rather than the moving truck. And an old Sesame Street song runs through her head.
One of these things does not belong…
This is Father’s fault, she tells herself. She should be happy, exploring her new neighborhood on the Cannondale, taking a walk in the expansive park across the street, or maybe just relaxing on the couch with a few mindless episodes of Regular Show . Instead, she’s thinking about him .
Specifically, she’s thinking about where she’ll keep him.
Kneeling, she slowly peels away packing tape, then pulls the lid flaps up. Many of the things inside the box are innocent enough—sweatshirts and sweaters. But in the center of these plush garments, a cat figurine waits. The statue glistens snow white, but its feline elegance is marred by a slash of black electrical tape across the eyes.
Hannah wonders what will happen if she destroys the cat. She imagines the statue shattering on the floor, then pictures herself swinging a hammer through its head. These thoughts are nothing new, but she never summons the will to make them real.
She can’t bring herself to murder her own father.
* * *
Downstairs, Tina sorts through her belongings as Kevin cuts tape from boxes. Although she’s done more than her share over the last decade, moving is always hard. She hopes this is the last time.
Taking a break from lining up her possessions, she watches Kevin. The way his tongue sticks out of his mouth when he works reminds Tina of Charlie
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