Page 112 of Cruel Obsession

A shell of what used to be.

The key turns in the lock. I step inside.

My father’s house is exactly as I left it last weekend—dishes drying on the rack, his favorite sweater thrown over the arm of the couch, the scent of his aftershave lingering in the air. I collapse onto the sofa, suddenly exhausted by everything that’s happened.

The tears come then, hot and furious. I curl into myself, sobs wracking my body until I can barely breathe. Mom’s gone. Dad is dying. My sister is gone. And I’m pregnant with the child of a man who has made it clear he never wants children—a man whose world drips with danger and secrets that might include my sister’s disappearance.

What will I do without Dad?

“It’s all my fault,” I mumble into a tear-soaked cushion.

It started with Debra. Her disappearance broke something in Dad—in all of us. That terrible fight we had before her school trip, the cutting words I can’t take back. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, maybe she wouldn’t have gone. Maybe she’d still be here, and Dad wouldn’t have withdrawn into grief until cancer found its way into the hollow spaces.

The memory hits me with sudden clarity—Debra’s face, identical to mine but twisted with hurt, as I accused her of something stupid I can barely remember. The slamming door. The silence that followed. Then she was gone without a trace. And there, in the woods, I sawhim. The bald man with tattoos.

Stefan.

The same man who’s now hanging around my lover’s home.

He’s not your lover, you idiot.

Then what is he?

I dash a tear away, angry with myself for even thinking about the status of my non-relationship with Arkady with all that’s going on.

“I miss you so much,” I whisper into the empty room, my voice raw. “What would you do, Debra? Dad’s dying, I’m pregnant, and the father…” My voice breaks. “The father might be the reason you’re gone.”

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the fear that I might be looking at a future where I’m totally alone. A single mom raising a mobster’s child. There’s no way I can work there after the baby’s born.

Don’t be ridiculous, Mirabel.

If Dad dies, you sell the house to pay the bills and ditch the shitty job.

The thought of facing the harsh practicalities of wrapping up my father’s home only leaves me more miserable. I cry until exhaustion claims me, slipping into a fitful sleep on the couch where Dad and I used to have popcorn fights with Debra.

My phone’s vibration pulls me from darkness. I fumble for it, disoriented. It’s Diane. I answer it.

“Hello?” My voice is thick with sleep.

“Where are you?” Diane’s voice fills my ear, concern laced through her tone. “I’ve been texting for hours!”

“At Dad’s place,” I mutter, sitting up. My neck protests the awkward angle. “Sorry. Rough day.”

“What happened?” Her tone softens immediately.

I explain about Dad’s prognosis, each word ripping open fresh wounds.

“Jesus, Mir. I’m so sorry,” she says. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I’ll figure it out.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I always do,” I counter, rubbing my eyes.

A beat of silence. “How’s the spawn?”

Despite everything, I smile at her nickname for the baby. “Growing. Making me pee every twenty minutes.”