Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Capri
It took me a moment for it to register that there was light on in the room. I squinted against the bright fluorescents and covered a yawn before I could focus enough to see my father sitting in the chair opposite the sofa I had slept on last night. So much for slipping out of here before he got to his office. I wasn’t sure when I went to sleep last night, but it had been late.
My father raised the dark blue mug with the words “World’s Best Pastor” to his mouth and drank his coffee as he watched me. He didn’t have to speak. I saw the condescending “I told you so” in his gaze. He was assuming things. Most were wrong, but I would guess he might be accurate in a few.
I sat up, dropping my feet to the floor, and sighed. A confrontation I wasn’t ready for but had no other option. I had come here and, in doing so, opened the door of communication once again with him.
“Your old room might be a guest bedroom now, but it’s still empty. I expect it is more comfortable than that sofa,” he informed me.
He was naïve. Clueless. I had come here to protect him and mom. We might be on rough speaking terms, but they were still my parents, and I didn’t want to bring Thatcher to their door.
“Oh, I don’t know. This sofa is nice and worn in. Quiet, no one trying to tell me what to do. The Lord left me alone,” I said, then stifled a yawn.
Dad’s expression hardened some, but not much. He didn’t like me making jokes about the Lord.
“Your pride needs checked,” he informed me.
This wasn’t about my pride. It was about my sanity.
“You are making assumptions, Dad.”
He took another drink from his cup, studying me. “I’m your father. I don’t have to make assumptions. And your mother is hurt but she does forgive you. She wants to hear you apologize to her face though.”
Yeah, well, that was not happening. I took the blanket I had used and began to fold it up. “Perhaps she should apologize to me,” I said tightly, standing up, already regretting that I had chosen to sleep here last night. It wasn’t as if I were broke. I had a bank account. I could have parked the truck in Atlanta then taken an Uber to a hotel. But I hadn’t, which was something I could admit this morning after having a night to sleep on. It was because, while I had needed distance, I hadn’t wanted to be that far away from Thatcher.
He had been a full-blown psycho yesterday. But after the time away from him and the sleep, I could see past the crazed gleam in his eyes to the other that had been there. He’d been afraid. He had one focus. Me. One goal- keeping me.
My chest ached. Had he slept last night? Had they calmed him down?
No. I wasn’t doing that. I could not let my love for him outweigh the rest—the idea of him sleeping alone in his bed, our bed. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly as my throat tightened. Without me there to comfort him, who would?
“Don’t act like a child, Capri. As you pointed out to your mother and I, you are a grown woman. You make your own choices. Now, you’re faced with the truth that your parents know more than you gave them credit for. We’ve lived life, honey. We have experience. You may be twenty-seven years old, but you have been sheltered. Our fault. I can admit to that. But we were trying to protect you. I’d always believed you’d marry a man of faith. Live your life the way you’d been raised. But-”
“Dad, just don’t. Stop. I’m not here to get forgiveness. I needed a night to collect my thoughts. That is all. I had even planned on being gone before you got here. And I am now leaving.” I informed him and headed for the door.
“Do you know who he killed?” My father asked as I reached the door.
I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to keep going. But the tone of his voice, there was something there. A heaviness or weight he was tired from bearing. It didn’t make sense.
“He wasn’t convicted. Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Funny thing about murders, they don’t get wiped under a rug. A man was, in fact, killed that day. Not only did Thatcher Shephard snap Beauden Redd’s neck, but he then lit a cigarette and waited for the cops to arrive. He didn’t even run,” he told me, his tone etched with… guilt. No. That made no sense. Why would my father have guilt over something he hadn’t done? I turned around and looked back at him.