He shoots me an uncertain look, and I think of Jack asking the same, still wondering and wishing. As angry as I can be with either one of them for past attacks, my heart goes out to them both.

“Elizabeth is dead, Dad,” I say gently. “We agreed on that. Unless you know something we don’t?”

“Oh yeah,” he snorts, though his breathing is heavy, “I know lots that you don’t. But not about her.”

I wait for him to elaborate, perhaps to go off on something having to do, if not with Elizabeth, then with the law or my mother or even Margo.

We are nearing the top of the road. The house has appeared and grows taller with each step. But he has slowed even more. When he stops entirely, he straightens, puts his hands on his lower back and stretches. He is panting.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“No. I am not.”

Now that I look, he is pale, and there’s that breathing. I reach for my phone. “I’ll call for help—”

“No.” Straightening, he starts walking again. His steps are slow, his eyes on the house like it’s the goal of his life. “I need to tell you.” He shoots me a glance to make sure I’m listening.

And I hear a confession coming.

Chapter 11

My pulse trips over the possibilities—Elizabeth, my mother, me—but I’ve left one out.

“I know what’s happening,” he says in short breaths. “To my mind. What I have.”

Quickly, I recalibrate. I’m not stricken; he is only confirming my suspicions. But his tone is the shocker. There is resignation even in his breathlessness, and resignation is so not my father. Belligerence, yes. Resentment, yes. Defiance, yes. But not resignation.

“I can’t remember,” he goes on in his soft huffing. “Words. Names. Where to be. What to do.”

He shoots me another glance, but my childhood training is ingrained. I know not to speak, just to listen. That said, I could swear his glance held shame and as his daughter, as a human being, I’m heartsick.

I want to tell him that what he has isn’t his fault. But he is slogging on now, just that foot or two ahead of me, up the last of the hill to the crest. Once there, he points at the front steps. Veering in front of me so sharply that I have to stop short, he crosses the last distance and lowers himself to the wood.

Now that he’s stopped, the sound of his breathing is even louder. I’m not sure if it’s the hill, the heat, or the hell in his mind, but he is clearly in distress.

Dropping down on the step, I face him and urge softly, “Go on.”