What I need is staying at your house, washing your flannel shirts, and frying you up some eggs and bacon every morning. “Of course.”

Arden can hear his dad stomping up the stairs. “I’ve got to go. The emperor is home.”

“Alright, son. Talk at you later.”

Arden hangs up just in time for the sheriff to swing open the bedroom door. He paces the room, inspecting the closet, and looking under the bed for potential hiding spots. Not many places for someone to hide in here, but the sheriff is thorough.

“Did you misplace your sense again, Sheriff?” Arden drawls, twisting a knob on his telescope. “You could try the hamper.”

His father eases up to where Arden sits in the recliner. “Who were you talking to on the phone just then?”

“Uncle Cletus.”

The sheriff extends his hand out. “Give it to me.”

Arden gives it to him without a fight. He’s got nothing to hide.

His father scrolls through the numbers. “What’d you talk to Cletus about?”

Arden shrugs. “He doesn’t need my help tomorrow. Calling to tell me so.”

“Good. Because from now on, you have football practice on Saturdays. I talked to Coach Nelson today. You’re back on the team. Quarterback. It’s like you never left.”

Arden stands so fast the recliner rocks violently behind his legs. “I said I would go to him when I was ready.”

“I’ve decided that you’re ready. See how easy it is for me to get things done, Arden? One phone call, and you’re back on the team. One phone call, and that girl’s parents are—”

“Fine,” Arden says, crossing his arms. “It’s fine. Put me back on the team. Anything else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

His father nods, grins a little. “Yep. We’re going shopping this weekend, you and I. Get you some decent, family-oriented clothes for election-year public appearances. Starting with a graveside memorial on the anniversary of Amber’s death.”

“You—”

The sheriff makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “People mourn in different ways, son. Always remember that.”

“Really? That’s your explanation?”

His dad crosses his massive arms. “You think I don’t miss Amber?”

“I think you’ve been relieved since the day she died.” Arden’s voice is full of venom. He knows it’s dangerous, to get his dad riled up about Amber. But poison like this festers inside you for so long, and then foams up until you have no way to contain it sometimes. And this is one of those times. “She was your daughter and her illness was a cancer to your campaign. You grieve more over your team losing a football game than you grieved over Amber’s death. It was all about you, never about her. You killed her, same as if you gave her the pills yourself.”

Strong fingers lace around Arden’s neck. “Shut your mouth, son. Have you forgotten how many times I’ve saved your ass from juvie? And what about your girlfriend? You want her going to prison for her little stunt while I deport her family? Then. Shut. Your. Mouth.”

Arden manages to wriggle out of his father’s grasp—it’s a move Glass taught him—and stands eye to eye with him. He’s as tall as the sheriff, and his shoulders are just as wide. “One of these days you won’t have a quick fix,” Arden says in a low voice. “One of these days your house of cards will come crashing down on you, and the edges will be razor sharp and they’ll make their marks on you. One of these days you’ll suffer like you’ve made everyone else suffer. And I hope to God I’m there to see it.”

The sheriff flinches, taking a step back. His face softens even though he’s scowling. “Do you remember when I was a deputy like Glass? And every night, I’d come home and turn on the flashing lights for you and Amber. And every night, you told me, you wanted to be just like me when you grew up. Do you remember?”

It was a lifetime ago, but Arden remembers. “I was five years old. Everyone wants to be like their dad when they’re five.”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Remember in sixth grade—that would have put you at right around eleven or twelve years old—you asked me to come to the school for Bring Your Father to Work Day. You still respected me then.” He rocks back on his heels, tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “I’m trying to figure out at what point I lost you, son. Was it Amber? Do you truly blame me for her death? Or was it before that?”

Arden feels his eyes brimming with tears. “Get out. Now.”

“If you need someone to blame for Amber’s death, I’ll be that person for you, Arden. I will. I only ever want what’s best for you. Always will.”

“I said GET OUT NOW!”

His dad backs away then until he reaches the threshold of the door. “Your sister had a lot of friends who want to remember her, grieve her loss. I can’t deny them that on the anniversary of her death.”

Amber hardly had any friends, because their father whisked her away from society. From curious glances and busy tongues and aggressive rumor mills. He couldn’t risk letting anyone witness a meltdown, not in his house. Not in his county. Not on his term. This graveside memorial is strictly for the sake of sympathetic voters.

And this whole I-grieve-in-my-own-way sermon is just another mind game.

Isn’t it?

Twenty-Seven

I take the new cell phone out of its box and marvel at it. Maybe not at it, really, because I’ve seen and used Arden’s multiple times, but I marvel that I now have my own.