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Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
  1. :01
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I glance at the door. It is thirty feet away.

I look at my watch.

3:42 a.m.

I ponder making a run for it, but even after Ewen’s veiled threat, I don’t find myself overly alarmed. After all, he is a ninety-year-old man.

What’s the worst he could do?

There is a soft chime and Ewen gets up and walks to a machine. He returns holding a sheet of paper. He hands it to me and says, “A perfect match.”

I take the paper and look at the results. “So David Sullivan was my father.”

Ewen shakes his head. “That isn’t David Sullivan’s DNA profile.”

I inhale.

“It’s mine,” he says.

:17

It is too much to handle.

This man is my father.

I lean forward and retch, sending the sandwich I ate earlier onto the concrete floor.

“You’re my dad?” I ask, looking up, wiping the excess from my lips.

He nods. “It started the night I gave my speech when your mother was at The Farm. We ended up back in her barracks.”

“And when did it end?”

“When she realized she was pregnant with you, she broke it off. She didn’t want me to be a part of your life even if I was the father.”

“Did you know you were my biological father?”

“Yes.”

“And so did she?”

He nods. “She did a paternity test when you were an infant.”

“And you didn’t want to be a part of my life?”

“Not particularly,” he says, nearly as coldly as my mother confessed to killing Jennifer Nubers. “But I think things turned out for the best. Richard was a far better father than I ever would have been.”

“You bet your fucking ass he was,” I nearly scream.

His veiled threat comes rushing back.

“So why did you want me to come here? You have a change of heart? You want to be my dad now?”

“No,” he says. “I simply want to know more about you.”

“What? What the fuck do you want to know? You want to know how I feel about my mother and father both being killers? You want to know if I have an Oedipus complex? If I want to kill my dad and fuck my mom? Well, I can tell you for certain that I want to kill my fucking dad.”

I fight myself from rushing him. From smashing his bald head into the concrete.

“I’m not a psychologist,” he says, laughing. “I don’t give a shit what you think about me. I’m a scientist. I want to know how your brain works.”

He points to the all the machines.

“You can go fuck yourself,” I say, closing the distance between us. The next word he says, I’m going to smash my fist into his jaw, sending his ninety-year-old teeth scattering to the floor.

He doesn’t say another word.