Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [101]
The question went through his head twice before it made sense. "I wasn't even looking for you," Alex said finally, feeling a deep and bitter anger rising through his body. "I came here looking for Rick Sanders."
"Why?"
Alex couldn't remember why now. His mind was spinning.
"Because my mother wrote you a letter that she never mailed," Julia interjected. "My mother's name was Sarah. I believe you knew her."
His father drew in a quick, hard breath. "Sarah? She sent you?"
"No. She's dead," Julia said bluntly.
Alex saw the surprise flare in his father's eyes. Whatever else he knew, he hadn't known that.
"When did it happen?" Charles asked.
"Six months ago." Julia handed him the letter. "She wrote you the day before she died. I didn't find the letter until today. I thought I'd personally deliver it. I didn't know that you…" Her voice trailed away.
Charles Manning stared down at the letter in his hand but made no attempt to read it. Then he glanced back at Alex. "Will you come in, so we can talk?" He stepped aside so they could enter the house.
Alex hesitated. Did he want to go in? Did he want to listen to anything this man had to say? He was still reeling. His father had let him believe he was dead for years and years. How could he possibly explain that?
"Let's go inside," Julia said quietly, her hand on his arm.
He'd forgotten she was there. He looked down at her and saw compassion in her eyes. "Looks like you weren't the one who had to worry," he said sharply.
"We need to hear what your father has to say."
"What could he say? How could he possibly explain the fact that he's alive and living under another name?"
She didn't try to answer his question. Neither did his father. They both just stared at him. Alex knew he needed to go inside. He needed to talk to his father. But this was wrong. It was all wrong. They had come here to find Julia's father, unlock the secret of her past. He was supposed to be the observer, not the participant. Dammit.
He wasn't ready for this confrontation. He'd never be ready.
This was his father.
The last time they'd spoken, Alex had been nine years old. And right now he felt about nine, overwhelmed with emotions that normally had no place in his life.
Julia tried to take his hand, but he pulled away. He couldn't stand to touch her. Couldn't stand to feel anything more than he was feeling. He walked into the house, looking around the dingy room. There was a green couch along one wall, a ripped, taped armchair in a corner in front of an old television set. A dog barked from behind a gate in the kitchen.
"Noah, quiet," Charles said sharply.
The dog barked once in reply, then sank to the ground.
Alex stared at the black lab with the white streak down its nose. His father had a dog-the pet he'd never been allowed to have. His mother had always said dogs were too messy, too much work, and his father was always on the road, so that was that. But now his dad had a dog. Unbelievable.
"Alex, let's sit down," Julia suggested.
He shook his head, his gazed fixed on his father's' face. "You want to talk-talk."
Charles cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say. I wondered if this day would ever come."
"You did? You wondered?" Alex tasted bile in the back of his throat. "When did you wonder? The day we buried an empty box in the ground, or was it later? Were you at your own funeral? Did you watch us grieving over you? Was it a big joke?"
"No, of course not."
"How could you do that to us? How could you let us believe you were dead?"
Charles stared back at him with apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."
"No, you're just sorry I found out."
"It's a long, complicated story."
"So start explaining. Not that I have any reason to believe a word you say."
"I deserved that," Charles said.
"I don't know what you deserve. Why don't you start with why you faked your own death to your wife and child?"
"To protect you," Charles answered.
"From what?"