Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“You changed your name,” Simone says with sudden realization. “The letter was addressed to Grant VanBuskirk.”
“Etta had custody of me and we tried to stay in the D.C. area, but I was really struggling. School was just hard, and I was acting out. She got my dad’s parental rights terminated, moved me to California, and we left it all behind.”
“I like Van,” she says, giving me a sweet smile. “It’s a good name. Strong. Like you.”
I appreciate her sweet words, but strong isn’t the word I would ever use to describe me. Coward, maybe, since I shut myself away from the world. Asshole, definitely. A charlatan, probably, for hiding behind a fake name.
I don’t say these things, though, and push on with my story. “Etta gave me a new life and things were better in California. She got me involved in hockey early, and it was a way for me to channel a lot of my anger.”
“She sounds amazing,” Simone says.
I nod, and although I know it will hurt, I have to say it. “The only woman I’ll ever love.”
Gotta give Simone credit, she doesn’t even flinch. She just nods, as if she understands why I’m such a schmuck and is willing to shoulder the burden of my assholery.
“And now your dad is dying?” she asks, pushing me to finish.
“I went to see him a few weeks ago,” I tell her.
“After that first night we were together,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. “That’s where you went.”
I nod. “I spent maybe five minutes talking to that asshole. He found out who I’d become but promised he’d keep my identity a secret.”
“Do you believe him?” she asks.
“Not one bit,” I mutter. “I just hope he’s too fucking sick to have the energy to do it.”
“Why did you go see him?”
I blink in surprise at this question. “Because…he’s my dad.”
“No, that’s not it.” She doesn’t give me any more, but I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t accept that.
Savvy little brat.
I suck in a breath, and when I let it out, I release the last secret I’ve held from her. “Because I’m afraid I might be like him, and I had to see if I could find out anything from him that would either confirm my suspicions or put my soul at peace.”
Simone scoffs at me. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe to you,” I tell her calmly. “But to me, it’s all I’ve thought about most of my life.”
“But you went to counseling—”
“Yes, I did,” I say, cutting her off. “And I didn’t kill animals when I was younger and the thought of raping a woman disgusts me. I can’t even fathom killing a person. I’ve read articles on sociopathy and psychopathy—or rather antisocial personality disorder and its variations—and fuck…I was going to go to college and study it before I got drafted, but none of that matters, Simone. Just one tiny kernel of fear is enough to keep me awake at night.”
She doesn’t try to dissuade me, but takes another tack. “And did you find out any answers?”
I don’t answer at first, holding her gaze for a moment. So fucking beautiful, and so fucking naïve sometimes.
“He didn’t start killing until he married my mother. He was thirty years old. Two years older than I am now.”
Realization dawns in Simone’s eyes and she immediately starts shaking her head. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, I know. But it could also mean something.”
“Van…I took some psychology courses in college. From what I remember, you don’t fit the bill at all. I bet your dad was charming, right? Superficially, that’s how sociopaths are, and, baby, you are anything but charming.”
My lips start to curve upward, but she’s not done. “Sociopaths have little to no remorse…no conscience, and Mr. Turner, I’ll say it again, the fact you’re struggling so mightily with this and the fact you’re so weighed down by your father’s sins shows your conscience is completely intact.”
“Other things,” she continues to recite. “Lack of insight. Inability to motivate. Lying. Poor judgment.”
“Lack of ability to love,” I throw out at her. “Impersonal sex. Trivializing intimacy.”
She shakes her head so hard her hair flies. “No. That’s not you. You love Etta. Van…sex is not impersonal between us. You might hold your emotions in reserve, but, baby, I’ve never had a more personal connection to someone the way I do with you when we’re fucking.”
My gaze drops to the floor. I expect she wanted to use something different there, like “making love,” but she knows I’d scoff at that. It’s amazing the uncanny insight she has into me. Simone knows how to handle me, and the only other person in my life who knows how to do that is Etta.
“Van,” Simone murmurs, and I look back to her.
“Can I come over there with you?” she says with a nod of her head to my end of the couch.