“In a minute,” I said. “You first. I want to know why you were so upset this afternoon and why you were so eager for me to get home.”
She seemed to debate with herself whether or not to press me but then said, “Okay, so I have something to tell you, but I don’t want you to get mad.” Her eyes focused on the thick bandage again. “What’d you scrape your arm on, anyway?”
“A bullet, and I can’t promise that I won’t get mad until I know-”
“You got shot!”
“Yes, but right now we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about-”
“Who shot you?”
“One of the bad guys. Now, listen-”
“Are you okay? Seriously?”
“Tessa.” I’m sure my tone reflected my growing impatience. “I did my best to hurry home because you were anxious to tell me something. What is it?”
She stared at me for a long uncertain moment, then unexpectedly left the room, returned with her laptop, set it beside me on the couch, and tilted the screen so I could see it clearly.
Her email application was open, and she’d highlighted a thread of messages.
When I saw who they were from, a sharp bite of anger cut through me.
“You’ve been emailing him!” Paul Lansing’s first email had been sent the day after we’d visited Wyoming. I scrolled down the list and saw that the most recent had been sent less than twenty-four hours ago. “I specifically told you not to email him without letting me read over-”
“Does it hurt?”
I went back to the top of the list and started scanning the messages. “What?”
“Your arm. Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts. A bullet went through it. I can’t believe you’ve been-”
“Ew.” She looked pale. Sat down. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
With every email I read, I felt a fresh surge of betrayal.
“How could you do this? Go behind my back and email him like this?”
“Why is it going behind your back to email my dad?”
“Because I didn’t give you permission to.”
“He’s my…” She paused, must have reconsidered what she was about to say because she left the sentence unfinished, stranded there in midair between us.
“Anything else?” I said. “Any other bombshells you want to drop on me?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Well?”
She leaned over, tapped the keyboard to open an Internet browser window, clicked to her facebook page.
Another email.
From 2:21 p.m. this afternoon. Tessa, I’m sorry I got angry at you today at the museum. I just wanted to make sure you were safe. I tried calling the phone I gave you, but you didn’t answer. (Don’t worry, I found it.) I’d rather not call your cell, I don’t want your stepfather to find out we met. I wouldn’t want him to get mad and then take it out on you. But we need to talk. Call me or email me as soon as you can. Love, Dad
I felt a rising quiver of rage. “You saw him? That’s why you went to DC? To see Paul? That’s why you cancelled lunch with me?”
“I…”
“You lied to me.”
“No, I just-”
“You said you were going to the Library of Congress.”
“I did.”
Half truths.
Deception.
“Love, Dad”… He signed the message “Love, Dad.”
I could feel my whole body growing tense, the ache in my arm tightening.
Tessa watched me uneasily. “I’m sorry.”
I pointed to the computer screen. “What is this about him giving you a phone?”
“I threw it out.”
I waited.
“No. I did. I promise.” She pointed to the screen. “He even says he found it.”
“And just when exactly were you going to tell me about all these emails?”
“I tried to this afternoon, but-”
“You’ve been emailing him for three weeks!”
“I was scared you’d be mad.”
I smacked the couch. “Well, I am mad.”
Then I stood and I was towering over her and she was easing backward.
“I needed to find out why he never came looking for me and whether or not he loved Mom, things like that. And he didn’t.” Her voice cracked slightly. “He didn’t love her.”
Despite how distraught she sounded, I was still furious. “He says here that he doesn’t want me to find out about any of this; that he was afraid I’d take things out on you. Why would he write that? Is that what you told him?”
“No! I swear! I told him how much you love me, how you’d do anything for me, how you saved my life. But he kept asking me all these questions about you, and that’s when I left.”
Her voice was crisp with pain, and I felt the delicate bridge we’d been building for the last sixteen months splintering apart. But I had a right to be angry. I said nothing.
“Please. You have to believe me.”
I wanted to ask her why I should believe her now. Why, when she’d been deceiving me for the last three weeks? And I probably would have said it if the realization of what Paul had been doing hadn’t hit me so hard.
He was doing research for his lawsuit.
He was using Tessa to dig up dirt on you.
Something cold and uncertain began crawling around inside of me. “Did you tell him where we were staying for the summer? Is that how his lawyers found out where to send the letter?”
She was quiet. “What letter?”
I hesitated.
“You just said his lawyers sent a letter,” she said. “What letter?”
“Tessa, right now, what matters is-”
“Tell me!”
I took a breath, evaluated things, finally plowed forward. “Paul Lansing is trying to assert his rights as your biological father. That’s probably why he-”
“Assert his rights?” It took her only seconds to connect the dots. “You mean custody. He’s trying to get custody of me?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer-”
“Oh?” Now, it was her turn to look betrayed. “Really? And when were you planning on telling me all this?”
“I only found out about the letter last night after you went to bed, and then this morning you were asleep when I left.” A seismic shift had happened in the conversation. It was a little disorienting. “I wasn’t keeping it from you. I was going to tell you at lunch.”
As I watched her, I could almost see the anger she’d felt toward me only a moment ago evaporating and something darker taking its place. A shiver of fear. “This isn’t happening,” she said. “This can’t be happening.”
Her hands were shaking slightly.
I held my good arm out to her. “Come here.”
She came to me then, and, careful to avoid touching my injured arm, she leaned against my chest. And she held me in a way that broke my heart.
I didn’t feel right telling her that things were going to be okay, that it would all work out, because I couldn’t guarantee any of that, but then I realized she was crying and I knew I had to say something. “Shh,” I whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m here.” I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. “I’ll always be here for you. You know that.”
After a long, painful moment, she eased back to look at me. A single, round tear traced down her cheek. “I love you,” she said, and her words were soft and deep and real.
I wiped the tear away. “I love you too, Tessa.”
“You can’t let this happen. You can’t let him take me.”
Then I said what I’d been hesitant to tell her only a moment before: “I won’t let him take you away. I promise.”
And this was one promise that I swore to myself I was going to keep.
No.
Matter.
What.