“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Erika!” Mom is talking much too loud, which is what she usually does on the phone. She doesn’t seem capable of controlling the volume of her voice when she’s on a cell phone. “Why didn’t you call me? I just found out from Jeanne during our bridge game that my grandson was arrested!”
“It’s okay. He’s home now.”
“Okay? You know what they’re saying he did, right?”
“Nope. I have no idea what crime my son has been charged with.”
“Erika…”
“We’re dealing with it, Mom. He’s got a good lawyer.”
“But… God, they’re saying that he…”
“It will be okay,” I say with confidence that I don’t feel. But at least I can keep my mother from worrying. “It’s all blown out of proportion. Our lawyer says it will be fine.”
“He does?”
“Yes.” If by fine, I mean the lawyer thinks he’s guilty and should show the police where the body is. But I already lied to my husband today. Might as well lie to my mother too. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Will you call me if anything else happens?”
“Yes.”
Wow, another lie. I’m on a roll.
The address Frank gave me is an apartment building. It looks more like a tenement, with graffiti scribbled all over the brick walls, and a small awning covered in holes. Just looking at it makes me want to clutch my purse tighter to my chest. Then again, it’s understandable my father couldn’t afford a nicer place to live coming right out of jail. It’s unfair to judge him. At least, not for where he lives.
According to the scribble on the paper lying on the seat next to me, my father lives on the second floor. I pull into a parking spot right in front of the building, and sit there, trying to work up the courage to go see him.
I have to do this. I have to do this today.
I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I walked unsteadily to the building, glad I wore my ballet flats for the trip, because I’d probably face-plant in heels. There’s an intercom at the entrance, but I happen to arrive just as a man is leaving, and he holds the door for me to go inside. And just like that, I’m in.
I walk up the two flights to get to the second floor. When I emerge into the hallway, there’s an odor of urine, the paint on the walls is peeling, and the light above is flickering. My father’s apartment is 203. I walk down the hallway until I reach the doorway. The numbers 203 are etched into the paint. Before I can lose my nerve, I reach out and ring the doorbell.
Then I wait.
I wait a minute. Two minutes. By the third minute, the butterflies in my stomach are settling down. Obviously, Marvin Holick is not here right now. I’ll return to meet my father another day.
But then the door is yanked open.
Chapter 55
Erika
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
An old man glares at me from behind a chain. I can barely see him, but I can make out his eyes. My eyes. Liam’s eyes. This is him. My father.
“I’m not selling anything,” I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Then what do you want?”
“I…” I clear my throat. “Could I come in and explain?”
“No. You tell me what you want and then I’ll decide if you can come in.”
This isn’t how I wanted to have this conversation—through a door chain. But he’s not leaving me much choice. “I… I’m your daughter. I’m Erika.”
The suspicion in his eyes deepens for a moment, but then something changes. He shuts the door and I hear him fumbling with chains. When he opens the door again, the chain is gone.
He just looks like an old man now. The dark hair that was thick in the photo from my drawer is now almost gone, and what’s left is white and wispy. His teeth are yellow and he has big jowls. He’s wearing a checkered shirt and suspenders. He’s a shadow of the handsome man he used to be.
“Erika.” His voice quakes. “I can’t believe you’re here. Come in.”
I step into his tiny apartment, which is sparsely furnished with an old ratty couch that looks like it came from the curb, an unfurnished bookcase, and a coffee table with one short leg. Also, the living room is beyond messy. There is laundry strewn all about the room and food cartons all over the coffee table. I suppress the urge to tidy it all up myself. He probably hasn’t lived here long enough to be a hoarder, but he’s moving in that direction.