Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

I try another question, even though it’s one I ask almost every day.

“What are they saying about Jake? Anything new?”

Even though he was never a big fan, Dad’s been worried about Jake, asking around and telling the cops to fill him in the second they have a new lead. And I love him for it. He’s my only source of information now that the “Find Jake” feed has dried up, and even the local newspaper seems to have lost interest.

He sighs and turns off the TV. “There’s only one development, and it may or may not be related—I want to say that right out of the gate. I’m not accusing Jake of anything.” But he looks away when he says the next part.

“Somebody robbed Ashland Drug last night.”

I stare. “And what? There were fingerprints? Someone was seen wearing a number thirty-two basketball jersey? Why would this have anything to do with Jake?” I’m desperate to know Jake’s alive but, apparently, not so desperate that I want to believe he could do this.

He rubs a finger along the rim of his glass. “It appears that the suspect was…in top physical condition.”

“Dad,” I say. “That’s not even enough for probable cause, let alone to convict.”

“I’m not convicting,” he protests. “Just thinking about this with you.” He gets up and paces the room, then settles himself on a barstool. “Daphne, how much do you know about Jake’s medical history?”

“He had two accidents and two knee surgeries. Other than that, he was in better shape than anybody I’ve ever met. No asthma, no allergies, no other injuries. We were together two years and he never even caught a cold. What else is there to know?”

But even as I say it, I know what I edited out: family medical history. His dad’s alcoholism, so bad it led to his death when Jake was in elementary school.

I shake the thought from my head. That has nothing to do with Jake. “He’s never had a drop to drink,” I say, with as much confidence as I can gather.

Dad nods. “But didn’t you tell me he’s been different this year? Isn’t that why you two broke up?”

I think of Jake then: how he’d resisted the pills right after his surgery and how, later, he hadn’t.

But there’s something about the way Dad’s sitting, the way he’s looking at me, that makes me feel like I’ve got something to confess. And then I look up at him on that damn barstool and figure out what it is.

“Nope. No, no, no.” I stand and try to pull myself taller. “Don’t you sit above me like we’re in your courtroom. You don’t get to play judge and prosecutor. I’ve always respected you. Always. But I won’t be put on trial in this house—and neither will Jake.”

“I don’t ever set out to convict anybody,” he replies. “Not ever, and you know that. I make the best judgment I can, as fairly as I can, with the information I’m given. I’m not asking you to do anything different from that.” There’s fire in his eyes as he defends his judicial honor. More fire than he’d ever use to defend Jake.

“Bullshit.” His jaw tightens, but I keep going before he can give me some stern reminder about language. “You never liked Jake. And now you think he robbed a pharmacy, based on what? The fact that he was in shape?”

Dad hesitates. “Jake fills his prescriptions with Jenna’s dad at Ashland Drug.”

“So do we!”

He holds up his hand, so I let him finish. “He also filled them at Walgreens and at CVS. He got prescriptions from three different doctors. He was getting painkillers in all three places at the same time, paying cash for most of them. And not just a few pills.”

The news cuts sharp inside me. I thought I wanted any information at all about Jake, by any means necessary. But everything about this feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Says who?” I demand. “Some Pine Valley fan who’s bitter about the state title? Some gossiping clerk who wanted to feel important?”

“Jenna’s dad.”

The answer makes me sick.

But something doesn’t make sense. “Jenna’s dad is a health-care professional who’s not allowed to discuss what his patients are taking. Even if you’re friends. Especially if you’re friends.”

Dad looks away, out the window. “I’m not really allowed to have friends. You know that. Too many conflicts of interest. And he didn’t tell me as a friend.”

“How did he tell you?”

“He told the police. It was in the warrant I signed to search Jake’s house. They tried to do it the easy way, but Jake’s mom wasn’t cooperating.”

I’m stunned into silence for a moment, but then I force myself to swallow down the sick and stand my ground. “How could you do that to them? They’re grieving, Dad. They don’t need police searching their house.”

He’s so calm I could scream. “The police have already searched their house. You know that.”

“With permission, when Jake was a missing person! Not with a warrant, when he’s being accused of breaking and entering and burglary and whatever else. Can you imagine how that’s going to freak Luke out? And what, you think Mrs. Foster has something to hide? If there was anything there, you wouldn’t have needed a warrant. She already let them search, and she knew there wasn’t anything left to find. So she stood up for Luke’s emotional health, and you plowed right through her wishes.”

Dad’s eyes soften. “Those boys need more than their mom is able to give them.” Then he clears his throat and swirls the ice in his glass, trying to dodge the daggers I’m staring at him.

“What’s that even supposed to mean? You think because your job pays better that you’d be able to parent them better? You don’t know the first thing about the Fosters, Dad, but you sure as hell made things worse for them. Trust me on that.”

I take the glass from his hand, forcing him to look at me. “What else?” I ask. “What haven’t