Chapter 7

Bryce held up the sheet of drywall as his dad screwed it in place, making it a lot easier than when working alone. After the news of Edwin's death, all he'd wanted to do after his shift was go home and work on his house. Restoring the old, two-story, brick home relaxed him - allowed him to grind off his frustrations in solitude, but when his father offered to drive up and help for the evening, he took him up on the offer, hoping to make some noticeable progress.

"It's really starting to shape up," his dad commented.

"Yeah, slow but sure."

"You'll get there."

Bryce pulled another sheet of drywall from the pile and held it in place. It was coming along, and he couldn't be more proud that his own two hands were pulling it together.

"I've heard about those murders this week on the news. Odd," His dad commented.

"Yes, it is strange," he agreed. Anxiety swirled in his gut at the thought of the late Sister Ann and Edwin Hulbert, and the fact he'd been questioned about the murders.

"Do the police have any idea who's behind them?"

Bile rose in his throat. "Me." There, he'd said it. Out loud.

His father froze in place. The noise of the cordless screwdriver stopped. His head snapped in Bryce's direction. Shock laced his dad's gaze. "What did you say?"

"They've questioned me."

"Are you kidding me?" His dad set the screwdriver down and faced him directly. At least his father believed he didn't do it. He had some support.

"No, I'm not. They really did." Sweat beaded on his brow at the recollection of Markie's accusation.

"Why did they question you?"

"Well, both the victims are property maintenance code violators."

"What does that mean?"

"They're people I've cited and am currently working with to clean up their properties."

"So the victims had reason to dislike you?"

"Yes."

His dad pulled a frown. "So if they didn't like you wouldn't it be the other way around?"

"You mean they'd want to kill me, instead of me killing them?" Bryce's throat squeezed around those words. His father had a good point, but he didn't like the thought someone would want to kill him any better than him being accused of murder.

"That would make more sense," his dad stated with a nod.

"I know, right?"

"Well, shit. Now what?" his dad asked as he raked his hand over his face.

"I don't know. And that damn Investigator Pearson is on my ass about it."

"The gorgeous redhead?"

"That's the one. Don't let her cute," Bryce bent over and grabbed another sheet of drywall off the stack, "little," he spun and stepped toward where it needed to be hung, "innocent," he placed it to the wall and glanced over his shoulder at his dad, "look she portrays all the time deceive you. She's a pain in the ass and tough as nails."

His father studied him as he stepped toward him. The corners of his mouth tilted up. "So, you like her?"

Heat flooded his face. He'd said too much. The one person in this world who could read him like a book was his dad, yet he still ran off at the mouth. Thinking back, he hadn't said too much about Markie, but it was enough for his dad to know, or perhaps it was his tone. Who knew for sure?

"No. I'm just telling you like it is."

"Uh huh. Sure." Now his dad's eyes were even smiling.

"It's not like that."

"If you tell me you don't care for her in that way I'll believe you." He paused, looked out the window, and then returned his gaze to him, his face sober as a judge. "You know, it's okay to put yourself out there when the good ones come along. You're judging yourself harder than the right woman will."

Bryce averted his gaze. He didn't want to have this awful conversation again, though it had been a while since the topic had come up.

"Son?"

His father's caring but solemn tone drew his attention.

"Don't automatically shut the door on potential happiness. Go out on a limb and take a chance now and then. When you find the right one, it will be worth it."

A quiver raked through his body. Easy for him to say, his dad didn't have a clue as to what he was going through or how he felt when it came to women - sex - his fear of lack of performance due to his injuries...

This subject made him want to crawl out of his skin. Why couldn't they just hang the drywall like planned? Why did they have to talk at all? And what in the hell did his father know about love? The guy was on his fifth marriage, and this time his step-mother was only thirty-two years old - two years older than Bryce.

Bryce set down the sheet of drywall he held, fixed his gaze on his father, and cocked his head to the side.

"Worth it? The right one? Like you know how to pick them. You're on your fifth right one."

A tinge of anger and disappointment laced his father's dark eyes, and Bryce knew the displeasure in his dad's gaze wasn't channeled in his own direction, but it was dissatisfaction in him for his cold comments. Immediately, he regretted his words.

His father leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, son, I view it a little differently than you. I thank God every day I was lucky enough to find love five times. Not many people are that lucky, and if you don't change your attitude, you won't find it once. And it's a mighty good feeling to pass on just because you're afraid of - "

Bryce lifted his hand. "Just stop already! I'm done with this conversation, and I don't want to have it again. You can't tell me being divorced four times is lucky. It's ludicrous - absolutely stupid to think so."

The older man's facial muscles tensed.

Shame filled every cell of Bryce's body. Again, like so many other times in the past, he resorted to meanness to cut people out of his life. It was easier that way. Push them away so he could keep from admitting the truth about his intimacy issues. Even if it meant isolating himself from the closest people to him.

Bryce sighed, why he tried to keep his self-esteem and intimacy issues from his father was beyond him since the man already knew.

"Well, I think we're done for the night. I know I've had enough," his dad said flatly as he unfolded his arms, then spun to leave.

He knew he should call out after him and apologize, but stubbornness closed his throat.

His father opened the squeaky, worn wooden door, paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Bryce, let me remind you that you lost your leg and left nut in Afghanistan, not your heart. I'm not sure where you lost that along the way, but you're going to die a lonely man if you don't find it and open it up again. There are a lot of people who love you, and I can guarantee there will be more in the future if you let them. Despite your hurtful comments a few moments ago, know my door is always open to you, and I'll do whatever I can to help you through."

Bryce managed a nod before his dad stepped through the doorway. He felt like an absolute heel. Grade A prick.