Page 112 of Tears of Gold

We finish up and I pop my pictures back in my bag. I leave, more confused than ever. What else can I do and where the hell am I going?

I want to talk to Eli so bad it almost burns my throat. On a whim I pull my phone and dial his office number.

He answers on the second ring and my legs shake at the echo of his voice down the line. “Faith?”

“I’m sorry. I know you walked away, but I wanted to hear your voice.” I take power from my acknowledgement. I would never have said this before, but this is what he wants, open honesty and no more secrets.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“And the baby?”

“I think he or she will like roast potatoes.”

There is silence but I tell myself I can hear a smile in its depths.

“Take care of yourself, Faith.”

“I love you.”

The phone line goes dead and my heart crumples with it. I really have messed up this time. There is no going back from this.

I was going to call Angela, but instead I head home and run up the stairs to my bedroom and root though my underwear drawer.

With the piece of paper scrunched in my hand I head back up to the attic, only to find it tidy and organised once more. When I’ve moulded the clay, warming it with my touch so it is compliant to my demands I rock back and think about how to talk. How to speak. How to make my voice heard. Then before I can change my mind, I call the number on the paper.

Twenty-Six

Francine Harrington settles back in her chair. Between us there’s a low table holding two untouched glasses of water. The office is nothing fancy; in fact, I walked past it twice trying to find it.

“So the police have dropped your case?”

“Yes. Someone has come forward with a statement that conflicts with my claims.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Like I want to punch my father in the face.”

If Francine is alarmed at my violent threat, she doesn’t let it show. “Your father?”

“Yes, I’m sure it's him. He's upset I inherited some money he believes is his. I think this is payback.”

“Your father didn’t believe your abuse claims?”

I shrug. “No. He asked if I was sure about what happened. I said I was, and he told me I must be mistaken.”

She watches me intensely. I hadn’t thought she would be able to fit me in this side of forever. Maybe I was secretly hoping she wouldn’t—or not so secretly. Her expression gives nothing away.

“When did you start your artwork on your own body? Was it after you told you father or before?”

“What’s that got to do with anything? It was before.” I frown. I didn’t come here to be judged on the markings on my skin.

“Do you think his reaction was fed by what he was seeing you display?”

I sit a little straighter. “What do you mean?” My gaze falls to the climbing flowers I have along my forearms. “I grew up in a tattoo shop. It’s hardly a surprise I look like this.”

“So you think if you work in a tattoo shop you should wear what you are selling?”