We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(65)

You will inherit but you do not deserve it.

I never thought I would become a father disappointed in his son.

My own father was disappointed in me, always, always.

But

that is what I have become

and I see now

that is how I will die.



* * *



—

Holland and I stare at the note, speechless. “What a major wanker,” she says finally. “He’s a hateful person.”

“He’s wounded,” I say, taking my father’s side. “He feels betrayed by his own son. And by his partner, too.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know how such a colossal jerk could have painted those paintings that are so full of soul,” she says. “How can he be so awesome and so rotten at the same time?”

“I’m not sure he’s rotten,” I say, slowly.

“Then what is he?”

“I think he’s trapped, when all he’s ever dreamed of is escape.”





59


Holland gives me a room to sleep in, and when I open my eyes again, it’s night. I have missed the entire day.

No one’s in the kitchen or the living room, so I text Holland my thanks, take an apple from a bowl in the kitchen, and head back to Hidden Beach.

Nothing at all is clear but this:

I came to this island to find my father. Now that he is found, I can’t rest until I know he’s really seen me.

Matilda Avalon Klein:

the strategist,

the gamer,

the storyteller,

the person who talks baby talk to dogs, who makes eggs for people even when she feels terrible,

who will clean up a poultry massacre.

Matilda Avalon Klein,

who is insecure and lost, but

who is also forceful and determined.

Matilda Avalon Klein, who wants to build fantastical worlds for people to play in; who is likely to sing if someone plays the guitar.

The kid he never got to know.

I don’t want him to remember only Melinoe, a character in his imagination.

As I’m walking up the driveway to Hidden Beach, Holland texts back. Babycakes, we are just out by the pool. Do you want me to come with? I’m family now. Maybe I can help?

I tell her no thanks, but her offer feels like a hug.



* * *



—

In the dark, my phone pings. It’s Tatum.

I am so sorry. Please can we talk?

I don’t reply, but he keeps texting.

Meer explained a lot today.

About Kingsley being Kincaid Sinclair. And Meer and you being cousins with Holland.

June is very upset. She didn’t know any of it.

Meer thinks you went to Holland’s but he texted her and got no answer.

We’re all worried.

There is a pause. He doesn’t seem to be typing. I am thinking about what to reply, when another message comes in.

Matilda Supernova of a girl The most interesting person I have ever met, with the most unusual mind My thoughts come back to you over and over I’m filled with regret I want to fix things, change things, figure out how to make amends I don’t know the answers, at all Maybe I could figure them out by talking to you?

I wish you would come back I hope these texts aren’t too many I am so, so sorry I will stop texting now.

I stop walking. I read everything over and over.

And I soften. Because I want Tatum, and I love how he sees me.

I don’t yet know what his favorite ice cream is or

if he ever had braces or

what he named his stuffed harbor seal.

I don’t know the happy stories about his childhood,

or the embarrassing ones,

or what he has nightmares about.

I’m very very upset. He’s still part of this terrible conspiracy. But I can’t deny his pull on me.

I text him back.

We can talk later.



* * *



—

The castle is quiet. Few lights are on.

Through the kitchen window, I can see Tatum washing dishes. My heart lurches in my chest, but I don’t go to him.

I am here for my father.

I enter the living room quietly through a sliding door. With a low click, I unlock Kingsley’s tower with the keys that are in my pocket.

If June is up there somewhere, I’ll deal with it. Confront her, I don’t know what.

But I’m lucky, and the ground-floor rooms are empty.

On the second floor, I step into June’s studio full of yarn.

I steal a pair of scissors.





60


“Dad,” I whisper. “It’s me. Matilda.”

The heat in the upstairs room of the studio is intense, with the windows locked shut. It smells like before, of paint thinner, sweat, and unwashed hair. The IV bag glows blue in the triangle of light from the bathroom, its cord coming down to the port in Kingsley’s chest.

My father lies still in the foldout bed. He’s on top of his blankets and wears a button-down shirt and shorts. His legs are thin and pale, his toenails bumpy.

He doesn’t open his eyes until I touch his shoulder. Then, sharply, like he was never asleep, he becomes fury and decrepitude, genius and malice.

“Witchling. You return.”