Does he have any photos? Any books? Anything that might tell me something about how a man can father two boys, abandon them, and then sell them into slavery for five grand?

His furniture is tattered brocade, and his kitchen table is a card table. The sour milk in the fridge is joined only by some pimento loaf and a box of baking soda. A loaf of molded bread sits on the counter, along with what’s left of a case of cheap beer.

That’s it.

That’s what my birth father had in his house when my real father, Talon Steel, came and offered him the chance for rehab.

Did he really go into rehab and just leave his cat here unattended?

Really?

If possible, the man just disgusted me more. I can’t abide abuse to animals. Like children, they can’t protect themselves from human cruelty.

How I know that better than most.

But I can’t take Floyd’s cat home with me. I just can’t. Not because I’m not a cat person. No. I could deal if it were just that.

It’s because I’d think of the bastard—and what Donny and I went through because of him—every time I looked at the cat.

I can’t put myself through that. The cat deserves better.

I sigh. I hate shelters, but I have no choice. Ava likes cats, but then I’d see the damned thing anytime I visited her.

No. No choice. But maybe I could at least find a home for her. The idea of a shelter makes me want to vomit.

And I already want to vomit big time just being in this house.

I walk around briskly, opening and shutting drawers, looking for something—anything—to make me see that Floyd Jolly was slightly human.

I find nothing.

The man abandoned his cat.

Of course, that was nothing after abandoning two sons.

All I find is a tattered book of poems. A turned-down page marks a poem by Robert Frost.

 

* * *

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

* * *

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

* * *

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

* * *

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The words are slightly familiar. I probably read this poem in high school or something. Who knows?

I can’t help a laughing scoff.

Why would my father mark this poem of all things?

He took a path that led him here.

Maybe he was lamenting not taking the higher road? Not abandoning his sons and then forsaking them altogether?

“Yeah, right,” I say aloud and then slam the book shut and throw it onto the old couch.

The doorbell rings.

The junk haulers. Good.

“Come on in,” I tell them. “Take it all.”

“Got it.” He shoves a tablet under my nose. “Sign here.”

I sign quickly and turn to look around the room once more. My gaze zeroes in on the book of poems lying on the couch. I walk over and grab it. The cat, its belly now full, whisks around my legs.

“Hey.” One of the haulers leans down to stroke her head. “She looks a little skinny.”

“The guy who lived here abandoned her for a week. I just fed her.”

“You taking her with you?”

“To a shelter, unfortunately. You want her?”

“My wife’ll kill me if I bring home another stray. Then again, she hates shelters.”

“Tell you what.” I pull out my wallet. “I’ve got three hundred dollars. It’s yours if you give her a good home.”

“What’s her name?”

“Puzzles, I think.”

He scoffs.

“Hey, I didn’t name her.”

He strokes her head again. “Your new name is Bella.” He waves the money away. “Keep it.”

“Please.” I push it into his palm. “It would make me feel better to know she’s going to a good home. Use it for cat food.”

“All right. You’re a good guy.”

“Thanks,” I say.

He’s wrong, though. I’m not a good guy.

I’m fucked up.

And I’ll never be free.

Chapter Forty-Six

Ashley

“Ashley.”

The voice comes from somewhere above me. I’m not sure where. It’s a voice I know.

But I can’t see or hear anything through the gray.

All the gray.

“Ashley. Come on, honey.”

The voice again.

It’s not Dale’s voice. No, it belongs to his father.

“Ashley.”

“Was it a mistake?” another voice asks.

This one I also know. It’s Dale’s uncle. It’s Ryan’s voice.

“She has the right to know.” Talon again.

Finally I make out their figures through the gray haze.

My stomach is clenched.

My heart is breaking.

Breaking for what my husband and his brother went through.

Breaking into shards of glass…

“Ashley.” Talon again.

“I’m here.”

“It’s okay.” Talon? Or Ryan. I’m not sure.

“How?” I demand. “How is any of this okay?”

“It was a long time ago,” Talon says.

“You don’t get over something like this,” I say, more to myself than to either of them.

“It’s always with you,” Talon says, “but Dale is strong.”

Talon speaks with a tone of authority. As if he knows. Well, he knows his son better than I do, I suppose. Which in itself is a travesty. I’m married to him. I committed to a lifetime with him.