CHAPTER NINE

Haddie turned down her street and groaned. Dad, leaning against his Shovelhead, had parked beside her Fat Boy under the overhang of her two-story apartment. His riding glasses hung at his neck. His long auburn braid laid over his shoulder and the left side of his head remained shaved. The slightly crooked nose, broken before she’d been born, added to his brooding look. Wearing the usual Harley t-shirt and jeans, he turned his head up and nodded as she pulled her blue SUV into her second assigned parking space. How long had he been sitting there?

She dragged her book satchel across from the passenger seat, gritting her teeth. With a paper to write, she didn’t have time for this. Besides, she’d skipped lunch and her mouth tasted foul from hunger. After dealing with Andrea, there had been nothing significant to support Mel’s alibi and little time for her own investigating. The day seemed to be getting worse by the minute. She opened the car door and stepped out to face him. “Not today, Dad. I’ve got a paper due.”

Slowly, he stood up from his seat and turned to face her equal height. His face, tan from riding, looked young enough to be in his mid-thirties. “Expected. You’re in college.”

She could smell the ever-present grease on him, a familiar smell of summers spent in his garage. “Fine.” Her grip on her bag tightened and she slammed the car door closed. “You want to talk. When were you born?” His answer her entire life had been to hand her his driver’s license. A lie in itself.

He snorted, but didn’t smile. “1985. Summer.”

Haddie blinked. He’d never given her an answer on this one. He didn’t lie, and the age almost seemed to fit. “Really?” His birth certificate had him born in 1971, just like his license, which left him forty-five-years-old and looking thirtyish. But he’d looked the same age when she was a teenager. Being born in 1985 would make him thirty-five and too young to have been her father.

He shrugged. “That’s the truth.”

Impossible. It didn’t work; he would have been seven when she was born. He’d never lied to her. “But—” She trailed off as the old concerns came back. She couldn’t be adopted, her mother’s family had been at the birth, and there were pictures with her mother. They helped raise her after Mom had died. He couldn’t be right about the date.

“It’s not going to make sense.” He rubbed a gloved hand, cut open at the fingertips, over his head tracing hair back to the top of the braid.

It didn’t make sense. 1971 or 1985, both were wrong somehow. And he expected her to just accept it. She couldn’t. “I don’t have time for games and nonsense.” She stuffed her satchel under her arm. “I don’t have time for you right now.”

He didn’t look hurt; he never did, even when she acted like a bitch. Instead, he just had that rough, brooding look. He didn’t respond but seemed to be weighing whether to say something else.

Despite her statement, Haddie paused, hoping somehow that he could say something that would make everything fit. This is why she couldn’t talk to him. It physically hurt to go through it. She’d pushed him away when he first started evading these questions, when she’d finally built up the courage to confront him after going through most of college realizing he wasn’t getting any older. He hadn’t aged since as far back as she could remember. It wasn’t possible. Now — 1985. That made less sense, but she would spend the night looking up Thomas Dawson born in 1985. Every variation.

“No,” she said to the questions in her head, and started to walk away to the stairs leading up to her apartment. When no one else usually flustered her, Haddie found her heart racing with him. Damn.

He called out behind her, “Coffee? Better yet, Fifth Street?” The tone came out casual, as if none of the rest of their conversation had happened.

Her phone vibrated, and though she should have kept going, she stopped and checked it.

Terry texted, “Your dog guy just got picked up, along with three others. Heavy records. Be careful.”

She shook a little responding, “Thanks.” Another thing to look up when she got upstairs. This paper was supposed to happen tonight, and it didn’t look good. The case wasn’t going well. Her involvement in the dog fighting ring could have just gotten dangerous. What was she supposed to make of 1985?

“Haddie?”

She didn’t turn around. “I can’t right now. Later, Dad. Later.”