“Really? I thought it would take longer. Let me go make the pesto and then I can—”
“Out of the kitchen,” I command, poking him in the shoulder. I’ve had a couple of growth spurts lately. Dad’s still taller, a couple of inches short of six feet. I’ve been slowly but surely making up the difference.
He retreats, not without some relief, though he makes a play at reluctance. “You sure? I could help—”
“You can help by setting the table. Not everything in the house has been insured yet.” My cooking is nothing to write home about, but at least it is edible.
With Dad safely out of the way, I dump the noodles in the trash and start a fresh batch, pouring the premade pesto sauce he brought home into another pan. Inside, I’m worried. The last time Dad tried to cook, it was right before he told me we were moving to Applegate to be closer to my mother. I didn’t react well.
Once both sauce and pasta are done, I carry them to the table.
“Smells a lot better than anything I might have made,” Dad admits, inhaling deeply. Unmoved by human appetite and good food, Okiku counts the floor tiles again, like the number might have changed since yesterday. Okiku has been with me for two years, but she can always find something to count.
“Well, spill it out,” I say as we take our seats.
“Spill what?”
“All this.” I gesture at the pasta. “We’re not going to move again, are we? Can’t we at least wait ’til I graduate? I’ll have to move for college anyway, so it won’t matter as much.”
“Tark, what are you talking about?”
“Every time you try to poison me with your cooking—”
Dad snorts.
“—it’s always before springing some surprise on me. Surprises I don’t usually like. So what gives?”
Dad raises his hands. “Can’t a father want to cook and spend time with his son?”
“Nope,” I say, and Dad’s grin fades a little, spotting the agitation I’m trying to hide.
“Tarquin”—he places both elbows on the table and leans forward—“I promise you there’s no other motive. I’ve just gotten back from a grueling work trip negotiating with a few hard-nosed and hardheaded businessmen from Beijing, and the only thing I’ve got in my head right now is enjoying the little time I can spend with you this weekend before I do the same thing all over again on Monday. I know that the last few years have been a little…difficult, but I’m glad we’ve gotten to the point in our relationship where we can actually talk.”
That is true. Three years ago, Dad and I had been nothing more than housemates, sharing the same rooms but little else. I start to relax. “Really?”
“Really. Although I’m not sure I like the insinuation that my horrible cooking always precedes horrible news.”
“My theory was that after surviving whatever you set out for me to eat, any other news would be easier to stomach.”
We burst into laughter. Okiku looks up from counting, startled by the sudden noise, then loses interest after seeing we mean nothing by it.
The pasta winds up being pretty tasty. Dad can pick out good food, just not make it. “Wanna watch the game later?” he asks as we’re clearing the table.
I hesitate. “Sorry, Dad. I kinda have plans. That okay?”
“Oh? Going out with friends of yours?”
“Yeah, I guess you can say that.”
I hate, hate lying to him, even if I think I’ve got good reason to, but I don’t have much choice. I feel bad, knowing he’d been looking forward to hanging out with me, but Dad looks pleased. He’s been after me to be more social, to go to parties and pep rallies like a normal teenager, and I can tell he considers this a definite improvement over spending Friday night holed up in my room. I don’t want to frighten him with the truth.
“In that case, don’t let your old-fogy dad stop you. Where are you going?”
Trish’s invitation to the jocks’ party is the first thing I can think of. “Um, there’s a party not too far from here. Over on Buckle Street.”
“All right, as long as you’re home by…ten-ish?”
“One a.m.?” I counter.
“Eleven.”
“Midnight.”
“Deal.”
It’s my turn to make an offer. “I don’t have anything planned for Saturday…”
“Ah, that reminds me. A business partner gave me two tickets for the game at the Verizon tomorrow night. Wizards versus Cavaliers.” He smiles at the look on my face. “I take it you’re interested.”
“You’re the best, Dad!” I jump up to give him a quick, fierce hug before taking the dishes back to the kitchen. My enthusiasm fades though, as I contemplate the night ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, Dad is settled in front of the television and I’m off, Okiku trailing after me in eager anticipation. Dad’s usually away, so when Okiku gets her urges, I rarely have to sneak out while he’s in the house. As it is, I make sure he’s focused on the college basketball game before making my escape. I’m pretty sure he’d wonder at my need to bring a heavy backpack to a party, or why there are gloves, a lower face mask, and a dark hoodie inside, if he deigned to check.
I hop into my Bimmer and pull out of the driveway, keeping my breathing even, which I’ve found is the best way to keep calm.
It’s hard to explain what I feel when I go hunting with Okiku. On one hand, I’m constantly tormented by the idea that I might get caught, that the police might one day piece together all these unexplained crimes and find enough evidence to attribute them to me. On the other hand, I thrive on the danger. The idea that I am helping put the scum of the earth back where they belong—which, ideally, is six feet under—is an unnatural high that I both hate and enjoy.
It’s a nice night, so I’ve got the top down, and Okiku all but stands up in her seat, hair streaming in the wind as I tear through the silent streets that lead into busier intersections. Okiku’s finger moves toward the east and I comply, steering the car in that direction. I could never explain how Okiku can pinpoint where these people are, but she’s always been right. We’ve been indirectly responsible for closing some cold cases in the last several months, and I’m sure that if the Washington PD believed in either ghosts or vigilantism they’d be sending us gift baskets by the dozen.
She points north as I drive past a few more streets. Our destination is almost always an apartment complex or a cheap hotel a few miles from the interstate. Every now and then, it’s a private residence, nestled among other identical houses in the suburbs. It’s horrifying that perps like these live among us. But Okiku leads me past the rows of houses and into the commercial district of town. When she signals for a halt, I’m almost sure she’s joking.
“A Five Guys? Ki, why are we at a Five Guys?”
She shrugs. I suppose cold-blooded killers have to eat too, so I park and we venture inside. There’s a big crowd, and in my case, this is an advantage. The less obtrusive I can be, the better.
I sidle into an empty seat, the smell of fries percolating the air. I scan the throng of people, ready to tell her that she must have made a mistake—until I see him.