Chapter 3

I stood there blocking the doorway, my voice shaking so hard it barely held together.

"Who exactly are you?"

"You want money? Or something else?"

"Name your price, take it, and get out!"

The man just looked bewildered at my words.

"Pansy, are you sick or something?"

"Why are you talking to your dad so strangely?"

"I'm your own father. I came to see you—why are you trying to chase me off?"

That innocent look on his face set off every bit of fear and rage inside me.

"Stop pretending!"

"You're not my dad at all!"

"What are you really after? Who sent you?"

I was so worked up that my voice rose without my meaning it to.

Across the hall, a security door creaked open.

Paulette Chavez, my neighbor, leaned half of herself out, peering over curiously.

"Oh my, Pansy, what's all the shouting about this early in the morning?"

My heart dropped.

If this old man started running his mouth in the hallway and drew the police, the secret I had hidden in the freezer would be exposed.

Weighing my options, I grabbed the man's arm and hauled him inside with all my strength.

Once inside, his gaze swept around the cramped living room.

Finally it settled on that huge white freezer.

He paused for just a moment, then turned his head and put that doting expression back on.

"My daughter, you've had it so hard all these years out here on your own."

"Look, Dad went out of his way to buy you your favorite—salted-egg-yolk holiday pastry."

As he spoke, he set the pastry on the dining table and reached out to pat my head.

I jerked back a step like I'd been shocked, dodging his hand.

My own father, Toby Dickerson, was a bloodsucker through and through.

He'd lived more than sixty years, and the words "feeling sorry for his daughter" had never once been in his vocabulary.

All he ever did was gripe that I didn't earn enough and blame me for not giving him money to spend.

How could he possibly buy me holiday pastry?

How could he possibly say something like "you've had it hard" to me?

The more he acted like a good father, the deeper my fear ran.

The man seemed to see right through my guard.

He drew his hand back and sighed.

"Pansy, what is it you're so afraid of?"

"I'm your father."

"No matter what happens, Dad will help you."

What did that mean? Was he warning me, or threatening me?

I couldn't let him stay in this apartment any longer—there were too many secrets here that couldn't see the light of day.

I forced down the panic in my chest.

If he wanted to put on an act, then I'd play along.

"Dad... I'm not scared."

"It's just such a mess here, there's nowhere to even step."

"Since you've come all this way, stay a few days."

"Let me take you to a hotel nearby—it'll be more comfortable."

The man hesitated a moment, then nodded quickly and agreed without a fuss.

"All right, whatever you say."

I hurried him downstairs and found a reasonably clean chain hotel just outside the complex.

I booked a room and got him settled in.

The moment he walked in, he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off his leather shoes and socks.

My eyes happened to pass over his feet, and I froze all over again.

His right foot.

No big toe.

That was the most obvious mark on my dad's body!

When I was seven, I'd been out playing with him in the fields.

A venomous snake suddenly shot out.

My dad shoved me out of the way, and his own right foot got bitten.

Because he wasn't taken to the hospital in time, in the end they had to amputate the whole toe.

How could this be?

Looking exactly alike could be explained away by plastic surgery.

But even a hidden bodily defect like this was identical.

How could something this insane exist in the world?

Could he really be my dad?

Or my dad's ghost?

I felt my sanity crumbling, piece by piece.

I couldn't stay here any longer. I had to confirm one thing.

I pretended to take a phone call, cupping my hand over the phone as I spoke to him.

"Dad, go ahead and take a shower and rest a while."

"Something urgent came up at work that I have to deal with. I'll come pick you up tonight for a big dinner to celebrate Thanksgiving."

The man waved me off happily.

"Go on, go on, work comes first."

Once I'd calmed him down, I bolted out of the hotel like my life depended on it.

I ran all the way home.

I locked the door behind me and went straight to the freezer.

With trembling hands I lifted the lid and pushed back the frozen, stiff trouser leg on Toby Dickerson's body.

Under a coating of frost.

On that bruised, bluish-purple right foot, the spot where the big toe should have been was empty too.

The amputation scar was plain to see.

I dropped to the floor and buried my face in my hands, sick with despair.

There was one Toby Dickerson lying in the freezer.

There was one Toby Dickerson sitting in the hotel.

Which one was the real one?