He wanted to believe what she was saying. He wanted relief from the ache in his chest that had settled there since he sent her out of his life. He wanted to wake to Zoe every day for the rest of his life.
He pushed back his chair and stood. He was trying to do the right thing here, protect her. Why couldn’t she see that?
“You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid of someone who’s supposed to love you,” he said.
“I know that.”
“Do you? You know what it’s like to lie in bed at night and nearly piss yourself when you hear his footsteps on the front path? You know what it’s like to hear your mom screaming for help and to know that no one will ever answer her? Do you have any idea what that feels like, Zoe?”
he demanded. He was yelling, his hands shaking.
Zoe looked at him, compassion in her eyes. “No. But I know what it’s like to believe you’re broken, that something inside me isn’t enough. I know what it’s like to be scared of living.”
He swore, long and loud. “I’m not afraid. Jesus Christ, can’t you see that this is the only way?”
He felt as though he was clutching at straws, as though any moment he was going to give in to the need to hold her and touch her and then they would both be lost because he wouldn’t have the will to let her go again.
“You’re not your father, Liam,” she said. “I know you believe you are, that the anger in you came from him, but it’s not true. You’re entitled to be pissed at life. You got dealt a shitty, shitty hand. If you didn’t raise hell when you were a kid, it would have been a bloody miracle. When I think of all the people who have let you down over the years, all the people who should have stepped in and stopped what was happening, it makes me want to punch a hole in the wall. But just because you’re angry doesn’t make you your father. Not by a long shot.”
He stared at her, exhausted. She didn’t understand. Maybe she couldn’t. It was up to him to protect her.
“You don’t know that,” he said wearily.
“I do. But you don’t. Not yet, anyway.”
She stood and pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket. He frowned as she passed it to him. He stared at the address scrawled across the page.
“He’s still alive. He lives in a trailer park outside of Brisbane. He works as a mechanic,” she said.
He went cold. He shook his head. He could feel Zoe watching him.
“Go talk to him, Liam,” she said. “Go see for yourself who he is and who you are.”
To his great shame, a wash of fear tightened his gut at the mere thought of being in the same room as his father. He took a step backward, shaking his head.
“No. I don’t need to see him to know what he is.”
Zoe moved closer. She reached out to fold her hands over his as he gripped the piece of paper.
“Please, Liam. Please do this. For yourself, for us. I love you so much and I know you love me.”
He stared into her eyes, seeing the love and the will and the hope there.
“Please do this one thing for me. And if you still feel the same after you see him, I’ll back off.
You’ll never hear from me again,” she promised.
He thought about what she was asking. Then he thought about all that she’d said to him, about how much he wanted to believe what she was saying. He’d always believed it was impossible to drown out the memory of his mother’s screams, that remembering them kept him strong and resolute. But what if Zoe was right? What if he could have what he wanted—her in his life, his bed, his heart? What if he didn’t have to be alone?
“There’s a flight to Brisbane first thing tomorrow. We could be there and back in one day,” she said.
He shook his head. There was no way he was taking her within a mile of his old man. Hell would freeze over before he let that happen.
“If I go, I go alone,” he said.
Zoe frowned. He waited for her to argue, but she was simply quiet for a moment before she nodded.
“Okay. If that’s what you want,” she said.
“It is,” he said.
She nodded and moved to his desk, reaching for the mouse on his computer.
“I’ll book your flight.”
He watched as she tapped away at the computer.
Tomorrow he would see his father for the first time in more than twenty years. The thought made his gut churn.
He started to pace, unable to stand still. Useless to pretend that he wasn’t scared. Rationally he knew he could take anything his father threw at him. Graham Masters would be in his fifties now, and years of alcohol abuse would have taken their toll. Liam was younger, stronger, fitter.
But it was impossible to get past the fear that had been bred into his bones where his father was concerned.
He tried to imagine the scenario in his head, what he’d say to his father, what his father might say back, but he drew a blank. The truth was, he’d never even contemplated making contact with his brutal parent. He’d simply channeled all his energies into escaping him.
And now he was coming full circle.
Zoe moved to collect a page from the printer.
“You leave at six, arrive at nine. I booked you a rental car at the airport,” she said as she handed him his flight confirmation.
She cupped his cheek in her hand.
“I know this is hard, but it’s worth it,” she said.
He stared at her, hope warring with fear and doubt.
He wanted her to be right. He didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.
BY THE TIME the plane landed in Brisbane the following morning Liam’s agitation had settled into a grim determination. He had no idea what to expect. He was doing this for Zoe. He didn’t let himself think beyond that very simple motivation.
He hadn’t been to Brisbane since he and his mom fled. For obvious reasons, the place held no appeal for him as an adult. In the back of his mind there had always been the thought that he might run into his father if he set foot in the city again.
He forced himself to look around as he drove alongside the Brisbane River. The sun was shining, the city looked prosperous. It was a place, like any other. At least, that was what he told himself.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he neared the southwestern suburb of Inala. This was where they had lived for much of his eight years with his father, moving from one rental property to the next. He hadn’t been surprised to learn his father still worked in the area. Graham Masters had always been a creature of habit.
Liam had to use the street directory to find Robard and Son Mechanics, the motor garage where his father worked. He parked out the front of a shabby cinder-block building, eyeing the garage’s faded signage and the rusting car hulks on the asphalt pad out front.
He wiped his hands on the seat of his jeans before heading for the door marked Reception. A bell rang as he entered, and a thin, gray-haired man standing behind the front counter looked up from a stack of invoices. Liam studied the man’s prominent cheekbones and big nose, noting his grease-stained overalls. Not his father. Not unless his memory had really done a number on him over the years. His gaze dropped to the name embroidered above the man’s heart: Keith.
Definitely not his father, then.
“G’day. How can I help you?” Keith asked, pushing his paperwork to one side.
Liam forced air into his lungs.
“I’m looking for Graham Masters,” he said.
“Graham? Sure. I’ll go get him.”
The other man gave Liam a curious head-to-toe before disappearing through a doorway that Liam assumed led to the workshop.
Liam took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his jeans again. His breakfast sat like a lump in his stomach and he turned to study the old motor parts calendars and posters on the wall, looking for distraction. His eye was caught by a wall of certificates, proud evidence that the mechanics at Robard and Son made a point of keeping up with their training. He moved to stand in front of the one certificate with his father’s name on it. He was still staring at the faded print when he heard the scuff of footsteps behind him.
“Better not be trying to sell me anything, not when I’m in the middle of cleaning out a fuel injector,” a voice said.
Low and deep, it was terrifyingly familiar. Every muscle in Liam’s body tensed. His hands curled into fists. A rush of anger, decades old, roared through him.
Jesus, how he hated this man. The feeling was hot and visceral, burning its way through his body. The impulse to punish and destroy that came hard on its heels was almost undeniable. He was a man now, not a child. He could give as good as he got. More, even. He could serve up what his father had dished out so easily, smash his father into oblivion, make him hurt and bleed until he was begging for mercy, the way he’d made Liam and his mother beg for mercy all those years ago.
Suddenly Liam understood one of the reasons why he’d been so scared of coming here today.
Yes, he was afraid of his father, but he was more afraid of himself, of what he might do to the man who had beaten his wife and child so relentlessly year after year.
“Well, you want to talk to me or what? Ain’t got all day, you know,” his father said from behind him.
Liam forced his hands to soften, made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders. Then he turned and met his father’s eyes for the first time in more than twenty years.
And felt a chill race up his spine. Because he could have been staring into his own eyes. The same color, the same shape, sitting in a face that was also disturbingly familiar. The square jaw, the cheekbones, the nose—they were the same features he stared at every morning when he shaved.
Talk about a chip off the old block.
“Jesus Christ almighty,” Graham Masters said, shaking his head from side to side. “Look what the cat dragged in!”
Liam had no time to think as his father stepped forward, his hand extended. Before he knew what he was doing, Liam was having his hand pumped enthusiastically, and his father was slapping him on the arm.
“This is unbelievable,” his father said. “Unbelievable. After all these years.”
He turned to Keith, who was hovering curiously.
“This is my boy!” Graham said. “Lost, all these years. But I always knew he would find me.
That’s why I stayed around the old stomping ground, so he’d be able to find me when he came looking.”
Liam stared at his father, barely able to comprehend his words. This was the man who had put out cigarettes on his body. The man who’d kicked him until his ribs broke. The man who’d clipped him across the ear so brutally that his eardrum had burst from the impact. Standing here, clapping Liam on the back. Tears, for God’s sake, glistening in his father’s eyes.
“Just woke up one day and they were gone,” Graham explained to Keith. “Bitch stole off with him in the night. Never could find where she’d gone.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Still, you’re here now, right? Come looking for your old man.”
He reached out to clap Liam on the back again, but Liam caught his arm before he could make contact.
There was a moment of taut suspense as they locked eyes. Then Liam released his grip and his father snatched his hand back.
“What’s up your ass?” Graham Masters asked, casting a look toward Keith, embarrassed the other man had witnessed the fraught moment.
“What do you reckon?” Liam asked.
Again they locked gazes and his father was the one to break the contact.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” his father said. “If that’s what you’re here for, you can piss off.”
“What’s wrong, Dad? Not so keen to take a shot when the odds are a little more even?” Liam asked.
“I don’t know what kind of rubbish your mother’s been filling your head with, but I don’t have time for this.”
Graham turned to walk away but Liam blocked his path. His father kept his eyes on the floor.
Liam could see a muscle working in his jaw.
It took a moment for Liam to recognize the emotion thrumming through the other man’s body.
Then he got it: his father was scared of him. His father was so scared he didn’t dare move, worried he’d trigger a confrontation that was bound to turn ugly.
Liam stared down at his father’s head, registering for the first time that he topped him by a good two or three inches. He was bigger in the shoulders, too, and deeper in the chest. He had no doubt that he could take his father apart, piece by piece. His father knew it, too.
“You’re scared of me,” Liam stated.
His father’s eyes flicked sideways and he forced a laugh.
“Nothing to be scared of. Don’t know why you’re being so damned surly,” Graham said.
“Don’t you? Maybe I’m a little bent out of shape about the way you used to beat the crap out of me and Mom when I was a kid. What do you think?”
His father glanced toward Keith again, clearly acutely aware of the other man playing witness to their confrontation.
“Look, I don’t want no trouble,” his father said.
“Too late,” Liam said quietly.
His father was sweating, beads standing out on his pale brow.
“I’ve got a heart condition,” he said. “I’m not supposed to get wound up.”
“Yeah? Mom had a broken jaw and a ruptured spleen. Didn’t stop you from laying into her again.” Righteous fury and a heady sense of power filled Liam. To see his father so reduced, sweating with fear—it was the antidote to every nightmare from his childhood, the ultimate revenge fantasy.
Graham’s chest heaved and his eyes grew shiny. Liam realized his father was about to cry. He should have relished the moment, gloried in it. His father reduced to tears and sniveling within the space of a few minutes. Liam couldn’t have scripted it better.
Instead it filled him with a rush of disgust and pity.
Because his father was pitiful, standing there hunched and scared because his long-lost son had dared to confront him with the truth.
“You’re pathetic,” Liam said. He stepped back, releasing his father from their standoff.
His father’s hands were shaking as he raised them to push his hair back. Liam recognized the gesture as one of his own, but this time it didn’t send a chill through him.
“You’re a bully,” he said slowly. It amazed him he’d never seen it before. His father had loomed so large in his memories, so unstoppable and all powerful that Liam had never taken the step back required to see him through an adult’s eyes.