The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Chapter 223: Chapter 223 - Your Father

Heavy knocking pulled Roxie out of sleep.

She opened her eyes and stared at the wall while another series of knocks shook the front door. Her head felt swollen from crying, and pain ran through her shoulders from sleeping curled against the edge of the bed.

Her phone lay beside her pillow.

The screen showed two school notifications and the time.

There was still nothing from Zac.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

For half a second, she thought it might be him.

Roxie pushed the blanket away so quickly that her foot became tangled near the bottom. Her chest tightened with a painful rush of relief before a voice came through the bungalow.

”Roxxane?”

Mr. Robinson.

She stopped beside the bed.

What was he doing there?

Roxie rubbed both hands over her face before standing. The marks around her wrists had darkened overnight. Fresh red lines crossed the fading bruises Zac had left earlier, and the skin still hurt when she moved her hands.

She pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over them.

Zac’s Tennessee page remained near the couch where she had left it. One of his shirts lay partly beneath the coffee table, and the untouched glass of water from the night before sat near the edge.

Roxie stepped over the papers and opened the door.

Mr. Robinson stood on the porch with his coat hanging open despite the cold. His hair looked like he had run his fingers through it repeatedly, and the skin beneath his eyes appeared darker than usual.

The moment he saw her, he asked, ”Is Claire really dead?”

Roxie tightened her hand around the door.

”What?”

”Your mother.” His chest rose sharply. ”Is she dead?”

A sinking feeling moved through Roxie’s stomach. She had always suspected Mr. Robinson and Claire knew each other somehow.

Roxie had wondered whether Mr. Robinson had once been one of Claire’s customers.

The amount of distress on his face made the thought worse.

She pictured Cynthia inside their clean kitchen, making Jason’s lunch while Mr. Robinson went to work. Cynthia was kind, patient, and almost painfully normal. She remembered birthdays, packed extra snacks, and asked Roxie about school.

Thinking that Claire might have been involved with Cynthia’s husband made Roxie feel sick.

”Yes,” she said. ”She’s dead. You can go now.”

Mr. Robinson closed his eyes.

The breath left him slowly. His shoulders dropped, and one hand covered his mouth.

Roxie watched him stand there.

She wished he would leave.

Instead, he stayed frozen on the porch as if Roxie had told him something that belonged to him.

”Why are you here?”

Mr. Robinson lowered his hand. ”Coach Miller called the house.”

Her fingers tightened around the door.

”Why?”

”You called in sick. He said you were alone and he didn’t know anyone else who could check on you.”

Roxie closed her eyes briefly.

Calling Mr. Robinson for help that one time had been a mistake. Coach Miller had apparently decided that made him some kind of unofficial guardian.

”He didn’t need to call my job.”

”He was worried.”

”That doesn’t mean he gets to send my boss to my house.”

”I answered before Cynthia reached the phone.”

Roxie frowned at the strange answer.

”What does that mean?”

Mr. Robinson looked past her into the bungalow.

”Can I come inside?”

”No.”

”Roxxane, please.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

He had always called her Roxxane. At work, she assumed it was because he was older and preferred formal names. Hearing it on her porch felt different.

Too familiar.

”I’m fine.”

”You don’t look fine.”

”I just woke up.”

”You’ve been crying.”

Roxie’s hand moved toward her face before she stopped it.

”That’s none of your business.”

”I need to talk to you.”

”About what?”

”Claire.”

Her stomach tightened again.

”She’s dead. There’s nothing left to talk about.”

”There is.”

His voice cracked.

Roxie hated the sound. She hated seeing him upset about Claire when Roxie had handled the motel, the morgue, the identification, and the cremation by herself.

He looked more shaken by one sentence than Claire’s death had allowed Roxie to be.

She stepped away from the door.

Mr. Robinson entered and closed it behind himself.

He knew the address.

Claire had given it to him years ago, and he knew she owned the bungalow. He knew Roxie had lived there her entire life.

He had never crossed the porch.

His eyes moved slowly around the living room. He looked at the old couch, the faded curtains, the scattered papers, and the clothes Roxie had failed to put away. His attention stopped on the kitchen, where the cabinet door near the sink hung slightly lower than the others.

His face tightened.

Roxie folded her arms.

”What?”

”How long has Claire been gone?”

”A few weeks.”

”And you’ve been here alone since then?”

”Yes.”

”Why didn’t you tell us?”

Roxie stared at him. ”Why would I?”

”We would’ve helped.”

”I work for you. You’re my boss.”

Mr. Robinson looked toward the kitchen again.

”Do you have food?”

”Yes.”

”Enough?”

”I said yes.”

”What about the utilities?”

”They’re paid.”

”For this month?”

”Yes.”

”And next month?”

Roxie’s shoulders pulled back. ”I work.”

”You’re still in school.”

”So?”

”You shouldn’t be handling all of this alone.”

”I can handle it.”

Mr. Robinson went quiet.

The silence made her more uncomfortable than the questions. He stood near the couch with his hands hanging at his sides, watching her as though there were several things he wanted to say and he could not decide which one would hurt least.

Roxie shifted her weight.

”What?”

”I can give you money for the month.”

”No.”

”Food, electricity, whatever else you need.”

”I said no.”

”You need help.”

”I have money.”

”Roxxane.”

The name made her jaw tighten.

”Please call me Roxie.”

Mr. Robinson’s expression changed.

”I hate my full name,” she continued. ”Everybody who calls me Roxxane is usually about to tell me what I did wrong.”

”Roxxane is a beautiful name.”

”I don’t care.”

”It means bright. Shining.”

Roxie stared at him.

Mr. Robinson’s voice softened. ”It suits you.”

”You don’t know me well enough to decide what suits me.”

His mouth tightened.

She rubbed one hand over her forehead. She was tired, her head hurt, and Zac’s silence had already taken everything she had left.

”Call me whatever you want. Just go.”

”Roxxane was my grandmother’s name.”

Roxie’s hand stopped against her forehead.

She looked at him more carefully.

The way he said it made the skin along her arms tighten. It sounded like the name meant something personal to him, as though hearing it inside his house had mattered long before Roxie knew him.

”Why would my name have anything to do with your grandmother?”

Mr. Robinson looked down.

Roxie waited.

He rubbed one hand across the thinning hair near the top of his head. His fingers stayed there while his face tightened with frustration.

”Mr. Robinson?”

He looked at her.

”I’m sorry Coach Miller wasted your time,” Roxie said. ”I’m okay.”

”No.”

She frowned. ”No?”

”I need to make sure you’re okay, Roxxane.”

”I already told you I am.”

”That isn’t enough.”

”You’re my boss. It has to be enough.”

He breathed slowly through his nose.

His eyes moved toward the bruises partly visible beneath the ends of her sleeves. Roxie pulled her hands closer to her body.

”No,” he said again.

Roxie’s irritation sharpened. ”What is wrong with you?”

”I need to know you’re okay because I’m your father.”

Roxie stopped moving.

The refrigerator hummed behind her. A vehicle passed outside, and the sound slowly disappeared down the road.

Mr. Robinson stood near the couch, watching her.

”What?”

”I’m your father, Roxxane.”