His Son. Her Secret.

Chapter 19

Beth almost turned back twice before she even reached the small wooden gate with the chipped pale green paint. The crease between her brows felt permanent at this point, as though carved out of stone. Lips thinned, her gums ached from how hard she ground her molars together.

Attempting to compose herself, Beth drew in a deep breath and immediately regretted it. The potent smell of stale cheap beer and something sour baking in the afternoon heat assaulted her senses right down to her stomach.

An involuntary shudder traveled down her spine. God, she hated this place. She and the girls didn’t live in a fancy suburb with pine trees and rose bushes, but it was still a hundred times better than this dump.

The neighborhood hadn’t changed in the seven years since she’d finally packed up and escaped the nightmare that had been her life. If only she could have stayed away for good. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, and she had to subject herself to the same cracked pavement she’d walked down for decades.

Old buildings with weathered walls and rusted fences that leaned one way or the other as though they’d given up on life years ago. That was the visual that surrounded her. The grass was dry enough to start a fire if the sun’s rays hit it just right. Flower beds looked like abandoned graves.

She stood there for a moment, hand hovering over the latch, her stomach already twisting at the knowledge of what was to come.

“Just get it over with,” she muttered under her breath. Rip it off like a Band-Aid. It wasn’t as though the encounter could be worse than every other time she’d been forced to make this journey, which was once every two months. Just long enough to prepare herself for the assault on her heart and soul that came with the visits.

The gate screeched as she pushed it open. Of course it did. It always did. Like the place needed to announce her arrival. Part of her believed the man refused to oil the hinges for that very purpose. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was true.

She’d barely taken three steps toward the house when a voice cut through the air. “Well, look who finally remembered she has a father.”

Beth closed her eyes briefly. Of course. How wonderful. A visit to this hellhole wouldn’t have been complete without a run-in with the old witch, Mrs. Tamarind.

Feeling resigned to her fate, Beth turned to see Mrs. Tamarind leaning over the low wall separating the small yards, arms folded, lips pursed like she’d been waiting all day for this moment. Maybe she had. It was probably the highlight of the woman’s life.

Beth’s highlight would have been the sight of the wall collapsing under the woman’s weight and sending her to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Sadly, that didn’t happen. The wall held firm even though it looked like it belonged in an apocalyptic era.

For her part, Mrs. Tamarind looked the same as the last time Beth had seen her in a bright floral dress and a headscarf wrapped perfectly around her gray hair. Sharp eyes watched her from behind large, round glasses.

In another life, the woman would have looked like a sweet old librarian who baked cookies. Sadly, there was nothing sweet about the woman, and Beth imagined anything the old witch baked would be bitter and hard enough to c***k a tooth.

Beth forced a tight smile, knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t matter, but still doing it. “Good afternoon, Mrs. T.”

“Good afternoon?” Mrs. Tamarind scoffed. “Is that all you have to say? What is wrong with you, child? You disappear for weeks, and then you show up with a small bag of groceries like that excuses you abandoning your own father.”

Beth bit back the first response that came to mind. Telling the woman to mind her own god damn business wouldn’t go down well. Mrs. Tamarind had lived next to her father since Beth was six years old, and the older woman had never known when to keep her nose to herself. Except, of course, when a child’s life was at stake, then the woman mysteriously became blind, deaf, and dumb.

Fighting not to show any emotion, Beth shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy,” the woman repeated like it was an insult. “Too busy for your own father? That man is alone in that house. Sick and struggling while you are running around God knows where.”

Beth’s jaw tightened. She felt her anger spike like a familiar heat under her skin. The urge to snap was strong. But she didn’t. Instead, she nodded once. “Well, I’m here now.”

Mrs. Tamarind studied her like she expected more. Well, the woman was in for a long wait if that was the case, because Beth had nothing more to give. Finally, she seemed to realize that because she sniffed and went on. “You should come more often. A daughter has responsibilities.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Beth said with no inflection in her voice. Then, not waiting for another lecture, she turned and walked toward the house, leaving the nosy old woman behind.

Beth walked around the side of the house, opting for the back door, knowing it would be unlocked this time of day. Her boots felt heavy, as though they were somehow trying to glue themselves to the gravel stones and stop her from going in.

The back door in view, Beth’s steps faltered for a second as she took in the fresh coat of paint. Her pulse jumped. Of course, the man was sick, but he still found the energy to paint his door. Truth be told, she wasn’t surprised.

Unlike the outside that was hanging on its last nail, Jack Javier had always kept the inside pristine. Beth knew she wouldn’t find a single cobweb or cracked tile in the house. Not unless the man was on his deathbed, and even then, she’d bet he would find a way to keep his house in order. It was his only positive attribute.

If only the man showed the same dedication to other parts of his life, then Beth wouldn’t feel as though she was about to walk into hell.

Beth pushed the door open without knocking. The smell hit her immediately. Disinfectant. Strong. Sharp. Almost enough to hide the underlying scent of alcohol. Almost.

“About time.”

The words cut through the air, sharp as double-edged blades. His voice came from the living room. Not surprising.

Beth stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The house looked exactly as she expected. Floors clean enough to reflect the sunlight filtering in from the windows. The furniture was arranged with precision. Not a speck of dust in sight.

And in the middle of it all sat her only living parent. Unsurprisingly, no warmth filled her chest at the sight of him. Not even pity for the state he was in, or anger. She just felt numb.

Jack sat in his worn armchair like a king on a broken throne. One side of his body slumped slightly, the aftermath of the stroke still visible in the way his shoulder dipped and his hand curled around the armrest just a little too tightly. But unlike his failing body, his eyes were sharp.

And they had locked onto her the moment she stepped in.

“Did you forget the way here?” he snarled, showing his teeth. Well, that told Beth the alcohol was already running in his blood even though there was no bottle in sight. Knowing him, he’d probably had it for breakfast. Perfect. Just what she needed.

Run! The word screamed in her head. Beth’s muscles twitched.