Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The guard leads me to a large room with several partitioned desks separating visitors from inmates. I sit in a metal folding chair with a small wooden ledge in front of me. There’s a phone receiver attached to the partition that blocks me off from the chairs to my left and right. A Plexiglas shield separates me from the room where the inmates are led through.
I’m drumming my fingers on the worn wood of the desk, trying to appear calm for that moment when Arco walks in.
And when he does, my gut contracts so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shit myself.
He’s led in by a guard who holds on to his elbow, wearing a beige jumpsuit with his hands and legs shackled. He’s hunched over as he shuffles inside and his gaze goes along the row of people on my side of the glass. When his eyes lock on to mine, his lips curve into what could be deemed a relieved smile.
I don’t trust it for a moment.
Fuck he looks bad. If my math is right, he’s got to be going on fifty-nine years old, but he looks like he’s eighty. He was once a tall and powerful man; now he’s frail. His body is emaciated, his face gaunt. His hair is almost completely gray, including the grizzled beard he’s sporting.
I’ve refused to look at any news articles or pictures of him since I moved to California. When I got older, Etta would keep me updated to some extent. She’d let me know how his appeals went, or tell me when I’d receive a letter from him. Every single one of them went into the garbage can. Arco was nothing to me.
With the guard guiding him, Arco ambles with short steps to the chair opposite me and waits for his handcuffs to be removed, after which he takes a seat with his legs still shackled. He just stares at me a moment, almost as if he’s drinking me in. His eyes roam over my face, coming back repeatedly to my eyes, which are also his eyes. I keep my expression neutral and just wait to see what he does.
Finally he picks up the receiver on his end, and I reluctantly do the same. When I press it to my ear, I hear his monstrous voice say, “I knew you’d come.”
“Only to see for myself you were dying,” I say callously.
This causes Arco to chuckle as he shakes his head.
“Still a little pissant,” he says with clear affection. It makes me queasy that he thinks he even has the right to feel anything for me.
But then his eyes turn hard and calculating. Leaning toward the glass and placing a forearm on his desk, he says in a low voice, “But we know that’s not the only reason you came.”
Fuck, I hate he knows that about me. I also hate the look on his face that says he has the upper hand, and it pisses me off.
“Now I’ve seen you,” I tell him with bored disinterest, “so I’m going to be on my way.”
I start to stand from my chair, but before I can pull the receiver away from my ear, I hear him say, “Think you’re going to get that Cup this year.”
It feels like my heart stops beating as my butt hits the chair. I press the receiver hard into my ear and listen as he continues, “Didn’t think I’d know who you became, did you?”
Fuck no, I didn’t think that. He was never given my new identity. All his letters to me had been addressed to the name I’d been given at birth and sent to Etta.
“Saw you on TV,” he says proudly. “Couldn’t believe that was my boy…a damn professional hockey player.”
Fury and hopelessness well up within me. This is a secret I never wanted out, and frankly, never thought it could get out. Any evidence of Grant VanBuskirk was wiped clean when Etta adopted me and changed my name. The court records were sealed.
“You better keep your fucking mouth shut,” I growl into the phone.
“Or what?” he taunts back.
I’m frozen in place without any rejoinder. I can’t do a fucking thing to him, and he knows it.
I’m surprised when gives a dismissive wave with one hand. “Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone. Wouldn’t get me anything anyway, and besides…you’re my son. I protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not your son,” I grit out. “Your rights were terminated—”
“My jizz is what knocked up your bitch of a mother,” Arco says into the phone, and his voice causes me to freeze with fear. It’s dark, seeping with madness and coated in malice. He sounds unhinged as he continues. “You got my fucking DNA, boy. You’re my son no matter what some paper says. A regular chip off the old block.”