"Are you sure?" he asked. I looked at him. He was looking at me. "If I fucked up, if I did something last night, I need you to tell me. I'm not smart enough to figure it out on my own," he said. I raised my eyebrows.
"Nate, it wasn't you. Last night was amazing. This was something else."
"I wish you came to me instead of running away," he said.
"I didn't run away."
"I was looking everywhere for you. Nobody knew where you were."
"I'm sorry I worried you. I just needed some time to cool off."
"What happened?" he asked gently.
I was silent. I carried the secret of what had happened like it was me who had committed the crime and not my father. If I told him, yet another person would know my secret shame. What if he thought it made me fucked up and a monster like my father? What if he knew that if it ever got out, the media would be all over me and that wasn't what he wanted? What if he just thought I was somehow guilty by association and didn't want to handle my baggage?
"I can't say," I whispered.
"What could it possibly be? There's no way it’s worse than what I told you."
"It might be," I warned.
"I don't care. I want to help you," he said.
Just do it, I thought. What was the worst thing he could do? Leave? He was going to do that anyway. I took a deep breath.
"I was born in Texas," I started. "It was a small town. Rochester. My father and mother owned a small ranch. I was their only child. I'd work on the ranch every day when I wasn't in school. Everyone knew us. Everyone really liked us. My dad was a stand-up guy, community leader, church member... That was why it was such a shock when he did what he did."
"What did he do?" he asked.
"Do you recognize the name Randall McCune?" I asked. He paused for a second.
"It's a little familiar."
"He killed six people in Texas six years ago. He entered a house where a family of five were sleeping. He killed everyone as they slept. He went back to his house and held his wife and child hostage inside while the police attempted to get everybody out without using excessive force.
“He killed his wife, but was apprehended before he killed his child. She was fifteen years old when it happened," I said, remembering the scene as I narrated it.
"Did you know the family?"
"I still have the scar from where he almost used the knife he used on Mom to kill me," I said, my voice cracking.
"Oh my God, Abby," he whispered. I felt hot tears pour down my face.
"I had to leave. I had my name changed and was kept in a group home. They let me emancipate myself from my father because of the circumstances, and as soon as I turned eighteen, I was allowed to move out of state.
“I came here, and I haven't looked back since. He went to prison, where he will stay until he dies. I haven't contacted him since.
“Today, a couple of hotel guests recognized me. They knew my story and who my father was. I've been trying to get away from him and what he did since I was still a kid. I thought it had been long enough and I had run far enough, but I guess not."
"I'm so sorry that you went through that," he said.
"I am, too. I couldn't live the rest of my life known as that monster's daughter. It just ruffled me, what happened today. I needed a little time to get over it."
"Why didn't you tell me anything?" he asked. I laughed.
"Because I couldn't have normal baggage like a kid, or kleptomania, or something. Related to a serial killer? That makes me guilty by association. I'd stay away from me if I were you. It might be hereditary." He laughed lightly.
"Nothing your father did is your fault."