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But his real name is Patrick.
Patrick McDeere.
It didn’t occur to me that the second half of his name could also be turned into a different nickname.
Ricky.
Ricky sat in one of the leather chairs next to the fireplace. My father stood beside the other one, his back toward the door. Neither one of them noticed me as I crept into the room, the glinting knife in my grip leading the way. They only became aware of my presence once I said, “Where’s my baby?”
“It’s gone, Virginia,” my father said with his back still to me, as if I wasn’t even worth the effort of turning around.
“Bring him back.”
“It’s too late for that, my darling.”
“Don’t call me that!” I snapped, my hand tightening around the knife. “Don’t you dare call me that ever again! Now tell me what happened to my son.”
“Miss Baker took him. She won’t be returning.”
“What do you mean?”
“That she’s gone for good.” My father said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “She agreed to leave Hope’s End with the child, find it a good home, and never speak of the incident again.”
A hot and stinging jolt of pain went through me. It was, I realized, the pain of betrayal. I felt so stupid then. So utterlyfoolish that I had deemed Miss Baker worthy of trust when all she truly cared about was herself.
“For how much?” I said, for I knew there was a price.
“Not as much as Patrick here.” My father looked at Ricky. “I did get the name right, didn’t I? Patrick McDeere?”
Ricky swallowed hard and nodded.
“For fifty thousand dollars, Mr. McDeere will leave, never return, and never speak of his bastard child. Isn’t that right, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Ricky mumbled, refusing to look at me.
“You made him agree to this,” I said to my father. To Ricky, I added, “Tell him no.”
At last, my father turned around, his gaze bouncing from one part of me to another. My crestfallen face first, then to my hand, where the knife remained.
“Now, look here, Virginia,” my father said as he continued to stare at the knife. “There’s no need for that.”
I kept my own gaze on Ricky. “Tell him! Tell him you love me and that we’re going to run away and find our baby and have a happy family.”
“But he doesn’t want that,” my father said. “Do you, son?”
“You’re lying.” I turned to Ricky. “Tell me he’s lying!”
Ricky’s gaze also skipped about. To the unlit fireplace, to his hands, to the zebra rug under his feet. Anywhere but at me.
“It’s true, Ginny,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“See?” My father’s tone was shockingly boastful. He was, I realized, enjoying the worst moment of my life. “I know you’re hurt now, but it’s for the best. You don’t want trash like him dragging you down for the rest of your life.”
“But--”
It was all I could muster. Shock and heartbreak had silenced me. But I knew I could still speak volumes with the knife in my hand.
I tried to rush at both of them, not caring which one I hurt just as long as I inflicted pain on someone. But before I could take a step, I was halted by a gentle grip on the arm that held the knife.