“Oooooh, so she likes it when you go dow—“ I jab my elbow quickly into Payne’s ribs, effectively cutting off his comment and making him howl with laughter.
“Can we all just stop talking about gutters, please?” My demand comes out much too loudly, causing the other customers to turn to watch the zoo in our booth. Payne slides down in his seat, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks, and Mr. Halliday laughs so hard there’s actually no sound coming out and he can barely catch his breath. After aiming a glare at my grinning best friend for starting this, she bats her eyelashes in feigned innocence, and I shake my head.
“You’re impossible,” I sigh, giving up.
“Of course, I am. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.” She blows me an air kiss before sticking an overloaded forkful of syrup-covered French toast in her mouth.
When everybody calms down, we manage to finish breakfast without embarrassing me any further, and I have to admit, being with them feels right. Comfortable. Once Sally clears the empty plates though, Mr. Halliday clears his throat in a commanding manner, and I know fun time is over.
“I’m sorry to spoil the mood, but I need to ask a question.” He looks pointedly at me. “Are you ready to come back to Folkestone?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush, does he?
The weight of four sets of eyes on me is daunting, and I stumble over my words and my thoughts a bit.
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks, not gonna lie about that. I don’t think I would’ve made it through them without Sunday.” My hand reaches for hers. “There’s a question I need an answer to before I go anywhere.” Knowing this is going to rip the wound wide open again, my entire body clenches, but I can’t think of any other way to get the poison out so it can heal cleanly. “Was Callum Torsten my biological father?” There’s silence at our booth as we hold a collective breath, waiting for him to answer.
“It would appear that way, yes.” Mr. Halliday grinds the sentence out between teeth clenched as tightly as his hands now are on the scarred Formica tabletop. “Based on what he said the night of the meeting, that would seem to be the case. However, my suggestion is to get it confirmed through a paternity test.” Sorrow and rage war for control of his features for a few seconds and each darkens his eyes in its own way. It causes me physical pain to see him hurting like that, but it also reminds me that somebody else loves my mother as much as I do.
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I nod my agreement.
“Is that something you can help me arrange? I’m not sure how to go about getting a sample for comparison now that he’s dead, but maybe Hali will let us grab a toothbrush or hairbrush of his? I mean, what use does she have for them?” The air pressure around me changes instantly, like it does right before a lightning strike, and nobody will meet my eyes. My head starts to pound out a warning, and I squeeze Sunday’s fingers tighter.
I’m not going to like this.
“What? What’s wrong now?” I ask.
“Callum is, well, he’s not exactly dead, Stell,” Sunday says, her face looking appropriately ashamed. “Roxy finally told me last week.” My eyes nearly bug out of my head as the familiar darkness starts to flutter, and panic paints her blackness around my edges. I shake my head and drop her hand like it burned me.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say? Not exactly dead?” My chest heaves. “This isn’t the Princess fucking Bride, Sunday, you’re either dead or you aren’t.”
“Please, don’t be mad,” my traitorous best friend begs. “You were hurting so bad. I was watching your heart break again and again with every bad dream and every sleepless night. If I told you he was still breathing, I was afraid it would make things even worse, and we’d never find a way to make you whole again.” Her tawny eyes fill with tears.
“You knew.”
She nods once.
“You knew for a week, and you didn’t tell me.”
She nods again.
“You all knew.”
Looking around the table at the downcast faces flooded with varying shades of guilt, I stop at the one staring straight back at me.
“You got something to say, Halliday?” I bark.
Poe doesn’t flinch.
“Star, I have a laundry list of things to feel guilty about, but not mentioning Callum Torsten is still alive isn’t one of them. I had no idea whether Sunday knew or not, or if she’d told you because you two haven’t spoken to us in weeks. Remember?” He raises his eyebrows at me accusatorily before shrugging his broad shoulders. “You know now, and you can do with it what you need to. If she kept it from you, you know full well it was out of concern for you, so stop being a spaz.”
Damn it.
Damn his eyebrows.
Damn HIM for making sense.
“Fine.” I huff, the wind of indignation taken out of my sails. Turning to Sunday, I poke my index finger into her forehead. “You and I, we’re going to talk about keeping things from me.” She gives me a sheepish grin, which I, as mad as I am, still find myself returning. Looking back at everybody else, I give each one of them my best single-eyebrow-raise-death-glare. “No more secrets. Agreed?” They all bob their heads yes, even Mr. Halliday, and I lean my elbows on the table in front of me, steepling my fingers a la Mr. Burns. “Okay, so I assume getting a DNA sample won’t be a problem then?” I ask the table in general.
“Not at all.” Poe’s father answers confidently. “A simple blood test, and we should have the results in a few days. Once we get those, it will determine where we go from there.”
“Where we go from there has already been determined, Mr. Halliday.” My voice is strong and laced with venom and steel. “If what he insinuated turns out to be true, I will do everything in my power to destroy that fucking family.”
Chapter Five
After breakfast, Mr. Halliday drives us back to the run-down four-story walk-up I’ve called home for the past two years so Sunday and I can grab our things. Somehow, I manage to convince both the Hallidays and Payne to wait in their rental SUV rather than coming up with us. We sprint up the two flights of stairs to my floor, stopping just short of tripping over the drunk passed out in the hallway, and all I can think about is getting out of here before anybody else witnesses this squalor.
The two of us run around the small studio apartment like crazy people—Sunday packing what we brought with us while I pack up the few personal items that mean something to me.
When I left for Folkestone the first time, I had no idea what to expect or how long I’d be gone, so I only packed things I thought I might need, assuming I’d, of course, be coming back to my life here at some point. This time, I’m throwing everything of any importance into my bags. My heart hurts a little at the realization that the minutiae of my life—the photos, letters, stuffed animals, and trinkets—all fit comfortably into my average-sized backpack.
The lonely life of a girl without a family, without a real home. A girl who has only a vague idea of what it feels like to be a part of something and be loved.
Hooting and catcalls from the street below drag me back to the present, and I give my head a quick shake to clear away the cobwebs of self-pity. Wrestling with the only window in the apartment that opens, I manage to get it wide enough to poke my head and shoulders out. Looking down, I see the guys leaning against the side of the rented piano-black Cadillac Escalade while scanning the face of the building and trying to figure out which unit is mine.