Monster in His Eyes
Page 95

My eyes studiously scan the neighborhood, on alert, waiting.
A minute passes.
Then another.
And another.
Ten minutes come and go, then fifteen. I start to panic. What if all this was for nothing? Nearly twenty minutes pass before a car comes up the street, creeping to a stop right in front of me. It's a black BMW, expensive, and new. The passenger window rolls down as my heart races.
I see his face. John Reed. Johnny Rita.
"Get in," he says.
I hesitate, wondering if I've made a mistake, but I can't know that, not until I hear what they have to say. Sighing, I climb in the car, refusing to look at him. "You're late."
"Yeah, well, I had to make sure you were alone," he says, pulling away. "Can't trust people these days."
"Tell me about it," I mutter, trying to quell the anger flowing through me. This man might be my father, but that doesn't make him my family. He's a stranger, and I don't trust him. "Where's my mother?"
"Waiting," he says. "She was afraid you wouldn't come."
"Because my entire life was a lie? Because I don't trust you?"
He looks at me. "Because she didn't think you'd be able to escape."
He makes it sound like I was a prisoner, like I was held against my will, like I hadn't welcomed Naz into my world. "You know nothing about what I have with him. Neither of you do."
"I know more than you do. You're nothing but a means to an end to him, something for him to play with. He ain't stupid. He's biding his time, and you make it easier for him. That's all that is."
Anger brews inside of me. I want to demand he stop the car, that he let me out, that he never look or speak to me again, but where does that leave me? Cold, and alone, with nowhere to go, and no more answers than I showed up with. So I just glare at him for a moment before turning away.
"I know what you're thinking," he says.
I scoff. "You know nothing."
"Maybe I don't know the person you are, but I know the one you were born to be," he says. "I know your blood, girl. It's in my veins, too. And I know you're thinking maybe he's a good man, that maybe you can help him."
I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't
"You're wrong," I say quietly. "He can't be fixed."
"Then why were you with him?"
"Because I thought maybe he didn't need to be."
"He's fucked up, Karissa. His head doesn't work right."
"Yeah, well, why do you think that is? Huh? Could it have been the bullet he took to the chest?"
He grips the steering wheel tightly. He doesn't like that I talk back to him. "There are two sides to every story."
"Then please, by all means, tell me yours. I'm dying to hear what compelled you to murder a pregnant woman and almost kill your best friend, because I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that."
He slams the brakes harder than necessary, the car jolting to a stop at a red light. His eyes zero in on me. He's got a temper, one I can feel building in the car. It makes my skin crawl, sending up red flags that beg me to zip my lips. It's not smart to piss off the driver of the car you're in.
"Nobody's innocent," he says. "Nobody. Not me, not him, not her, not your mother… not even you. I did what I had to do to survive the game, and then afterward, I did what I had to for you and your mother to live."
"You left us."
"I had a target on my back, girl. What the hell did you expect me to do?"
"Not put a target on your back in the first place."
He laughs bitterly but doesn't respond to that. I say nothing else, watching out the window. It's the longest drive of my life, even longer than the trip to Waterford with Naz, over an hour trapped in this car with this man as he takes us somewhere in New Jersey.
Somewhere I've never been before.
The house is modest, but a far cry from the slums they were in last time. It's a home—somebody's home, complete with trimmed hedges and a white picket fence. I follow John inside nervously, finding my mother sitting on a plush burgundy couch in the living room, Killer asleep on the floor near her. The television is on, some movie playing in the background, but all I hear is my mother's frantic voice as she rushes toward me. Her hands paw at me, her eyes wild. "Are you okay, Kissimmee? Please tell me you are. Please tell me he didn't hurt you."
She's on the verge of tears.
I shake my head, in a daze, trying to adjust to my surroundings. "No, of course not. He didn't hurt me. He wouldn't."
John laughs bitterly again.
"You're sure?" she asks. "You can tell me if he did."
"I'm fine, Mom. I just…" I look past her, around the room. It's well lived-in, the scent of flowers clinging to the air from a lit candle. "Who lives here?"
"I do," John says.
I turn to him, brow furrowing. "How long have you lived here?"
He seems to consider that for a moment, startling me when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a gun. Every muscle in my body seizes up at the sight of it, but he turns around and slips it on top of the mantle over his unlit fireplace before turning to me. "How old are you these days?"