June 8, 11:30 a.m.
As I walk out of the sheriff’s department, I feel numb more than triumphant. Probably because I can’t celebrate yet, not until I’m truly done.
I still have my final target. But to lure Springfield out, I need it to be dark.
So I drive out to Burney. I cross two county lines on my way to the 299. It’s a curving road through the forest, the two-lane highway bordered by the thick tall pines and redwoods, following the path cut centuries ago by Cedar Creek.
I concentrate on the trees, on the road, on the cars and the trucks I pass by.
Anything but the fact that I’m driving to sit next to my father while he dies.
Am I supposed to hold his hand? Can he even feel it if I do?
In a way, he’s already gone. But I haven’t said goodbye, because I don’t know how.
I’ve loved him and I’ve hated him. I’ve worshipped him and I’ve resented him. He put me in cages and car trunks and danger. He’s taught me good things, useful things, terrible things. He’s used me and I’ve used him, and I’ve survived…and he won’t.
That’s the awful, twisted truth of it: People like us, we find true freedom only in death. Because I can burn what he built to the ground, but I have to make something from the ashes. And that means alliances. Compromise. Violence.
That’s what’s waiting for me ahead.
But Duke gets to be done. I tell myself that has to be some sort of relief for him. Some sort of freedom.
I pray that it is.
When I pull into the parking lot of Pathways, fear sweat is crawling down my back. Is he gone already?
I hurry into the building, nodding to the nurse in charge. When she sees me, something in her face shifts, and my stomach falls. Am I too late?
I pick up my pace down the hall, jerking open the door to Duke’s room, my heart beating too fast.
Will and Brooke look up when I step inside, but I’m not looking at them, I’m looking at him.
His chest, it’s rising and falling.
He’s still alive.
I sag against the wall, the air whooshing out of me like I’ve been punched. Busy gets up from her spot next to the bed and trots up to me. Brooke follows, to help me.
“Come sit down next to him,” she whispers. She guides me over to the chair closest to his bed. “I’m going to let you two have some time,” she says.
I squeeze her hand. “Thank you.”
She closes the door behind her, and then it’s just Daddy and Will and me. Family.
“I’ve been playing him some music,” Will says, gesturing to his phone.
I take the damp towel, using it to dab at Daddy’s dry lips, moistening them. “What’s up next?”
Will looks down and he lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “If I Were a Carpenter.”
My throat burns. Daddy’s favorite. I sandwich his hand between both of mine, pressing lightly, hoping he can feel it somehow. I think I feel an answering pressure…did I imagine it?
Will presses Play, and Johnny and June’s voices wrap around us, singing about the kind of devotion and sacrifice that either fixes or breaks us—or both.
The minutes tick by. The songs change from Johnny and June to Loretta, singing about being free. I reach out to moisten his lips every few minutes, holding his hand the rest of the time.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but it seems like we’ve been sitting together like this forever. The nurses come in once to check on him, and they have that knowing look in their eyes when they look at me.
I just keep holding his hand and watching him breathe. And then it changes, suddenly, horribly. It goes from peaceful and quiet to a rough gasping, like he’s struggling. Like it hurts. My hand tightens around his.
“I’ll go get the nurse,” Will says.
He hurries out, and I just hold on to Duke, resting my other hand against his heart.
I know what this is. He’s holding on. Some part of him knows it’s not done yet.
Some part of him knows it’s not safe yet.
I lean forward. “It’s okay,” I whisper in his ear. “You can go to Momma now. I’m fine here. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
But he’s stubborn. Even in death.
Gotta do it for me, Harley-girl. Gotta kill him.
I close my eyes. His heartbeat is so weak beneath my fingers. He keeps struggling to breathe, struggling to hang on, and I don’t want him to hurt anymore.
Fate left him with this: the long, painful months of decay and now the struggle as his stubborn soul hangs on, unfinished, unable, unwilling to leave me.
I’d been selfish.
I hadn’t wanted him to go.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.” It doesn’t sound like my voice, but it is, I know it has to be. “Please, everything’s all right. It’s okay to go. I’ll do it…I promise I’ll do it. I’ll finish it.”
I bow my head, pressing my forehead against his palm. “I promise,” I whisper.
His chest rises and falls, suddenly quieter. Did he hear me?
Will’s hands are on my shoulders, holding me. I don’t know when he came back in the room, but I’m grateful.
Duke takes a breath in. Lets it out.
And he doesn’t draw another.
Busy, who’s been quiet this whole time, starts to whine. She jumps up on the bed, curling in a ball at his feet, her nose resting on his leg.
For a long time, neither Will nor I say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the nurses in the doorway, but they stay out. I close my eyes, pressing my lips to my father’s hand.
I want to stay. I want to cry and scream and grieve. But I can’t. Not now.
I made a promise. I have a job to do.
When I finally let go of him, it’s like letting go of a part of myself. Like I just reached inside and handed over my heart.
But I get up. I stand tall, the way he would’ve wanted.
“I love you,” I tell him. I smooth his hair back. This will be the last time I touch my father. This will be the last time I see him.
I don’t want to remember him like this, sick and wasting away. Do I remember him healthy and deadly instead? I don’t have the answer.
When it comes to him, I never do.
“Harley,” Will says softly.
“I have to go,” I say.
Will frowns. Tears are rolling down his face. But I’m not crying. I should be.
I cried when Duke was diagnosed. It’d been the first time in years. But I haven’t cried since.
It feels like a boulder is slowly pressing down on my chest. Pound by pound, the pressure increases, so now I can barely breathe around it.
Gotta do it for me, Harley-girl. Gotta kill him.
I turn, staring at the door.
If I leave him now, I never see him again.
So I look back. Once more. He’s so thin. So still.
But he’s not him anymore. He’s gone.
And I promised.
“Harley, don’t,” Will says, because he knows me. “Please.”
But I’m backing away. Away from Will, from Duke, from all the love, from all the lessons.
It’s on me now.
It’s just me now.
“I’m ending this,” I say.
It’s time.