Page 61 of The Intruder

Just as I’m chewing on another piece of ham, the sound of male voices floats down the hallway.

Bettina perks up. “Sounds like the meeting ended. I bet your daddy will be here in a second. I’ll let him know where you are.”

The cold cuts churn in my full belly. These are not the circumstances under which I wanted to meet my father. I don’t want him to think that I’m a liar. But I never exactly said that I was Brittany. I mean, that woman just assumed. I was only answering her questions. That’s not my fault.

“Your daughter is in the kitchen,” Bettina is telling my father, her voice distant. It’s not entirely a lie.

“Brittany?” He sounds stunned. “What’s she doing here?”

I have another couple of seconds before he gets to the kitchen. I swallow the ham in my mouth and take a second to smooth out my hair. I’m not as pretty as Brittany. I never will be. But that shouldn’t matter, should it?

The footsteps grow louder, and I straighten up in my chair. I have to look absolutely perfect so he’ll know I’m a good kid. After all, it’s clear that Brittany never visits her father at work, and here I am, taking the time out of my busy day to come see him. He’s got to appreciate that.

A few seconds later, a man appears in the doorway. I recognize him, probably from school events and maybe from around town. He is tall and distinguished looking, with brown hair that is turning gray at the temples and a well-groomed gray beard.

When he sees me, his eyes widen behind his spectacles, filled with recognition. I attempt my best smile, but it feels crooked.

“Hi,” I squeak.

“You.” His voice is hoarse and not at all kind. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” My palms feel very moist. I wipe them on my jeans, suddenly wishing I had thought to put on something nicer. “I wanted to talk to you.”

His jaw tightens. “Was that you sneaking around our house the other night? My wife heard the door open and then saw someone running through our backyard.”

Does Vanessa Carter know about me? That would make it easier, I guess. But if his whole family knows he has another daughter, it feels even more hurtful that he has failed to acknowledge me.

He shakes his head, his blue eyes dark. The same blue eyes that Brittany has, the same blue eyes that I have. “And telling Bettina you’re my daughter…”

I am your daughter, I want to say, but my mouth has gone dry.

“You need to leave my family alone,” he says in a firm voice. “Do you understand?”

My lower lip trembles. I don’t know what exactly I was expecting when I came to him, but it wasn’t this hostile reaction. I thought at least he would give me some sort of explanation as to why he didn’t want me to be part of his life. But instead he just seems angry and kind of embarrassed.

My father’s shoulders sag. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

I leave the platter of cold cuts behind, even though I’m tempted to take it all with me. Instead, I follow my father out of the sociology building. He’s tall enough that I barely come up to his shoulder, and he has really good posture. He doesn’t talk to me, but he doesn’t walk ahead of me and force me to catch up with him. Also, he smells nice. Like cologne or aftershave or whatever it is that grown men wear.

He’s parked in a lot behind the sociology building. He drives a blue Prius, and he opens the passenger side door so I can get in. I’m not actually tall enough, but my mom always lets me sit up front, and it seems like Dr. Carter doesn’t care either.

“What’s your address?” he asks me, his fingers hovering over the GPS display on his dashboard.

I thought he’d know where I lived. That he’d be keeping tabs on me. Guess not. I give him my address, feeling even more dejected.

“I’m not sure what you’re thinking,” he says as he navigates the streets from the university to my house in Medford. “But this can’t happen again.”

I pick at a hole on my T-shirt, making it large enough for my finger to fit through. “I…I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk.”

He glances at me as he comes to a halt at a red light. “About what?”

His voice is so sharp, it makes me flinch. Obviously, he doesn’t have anything to say to me. “I just…”

I want to ask him why he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. I can understand not wanting to have anything to do with my mother. I mean, I don’t want to have anything to do with her sometimes. But I didn’t do anything to him. Would it be so awful if he had to admit that I was his daughter?

But I can’t get out any of those words. Because the second I start talking, I’m going to cry. So instead, I just sit there in the passenger seat, clutching my backpack in my lap. I can feel the reassuring outline of the knife in the pocket of my bag, and for a moment, I think about taking it out. I wonder what he’d say if I had a knife in my hand. I have a feeling he’d stop being such a jerk.

But I don’t take out the knife. In fact, we don’t say another word to each other as he drives me the rest of the way home. He parks in front of the house, and I cringe when I realize he’s going to walk me inside. My mom won’t be happy about that either. But he gets out of the car and follows me to the door.