Free Daddy's Home by A. K. Alexander

going somewhere. But work? Like a CIA agent? That would be a real good one. Holly decided it best to change the subject. “So what’s for dinner?”
    “My daddy made us chicken nuggets and fries. We already ate. Chloe had ten chicken fingers! He’s a good cook.”
    “Sounds like it.”
    “But he made you something yucky.”
    “He did? Hmmm . . .”
    “Yeah, mommy. He made you chicken something blue. It looks gross.”
    Holly stifled a laugh. “Oh, yes, it’s probably disgusting. Did he call it Chicken Cordon Bleu?”
    Madeline and Chloe nodded simultaneously. “Yeah, that’s it. My daddy made me try it once and I didn’t like it. I like chicken fingers and French fries a whole lot more.”
    “I bet you do.”
    “Hey, Chloe, wanna go play Barbies? You can be Beach Barbie.”
    “I can?”
    “Yes, because you’re my best friend.”
    Chloe looked at Holly. “By all means go and play Barbies.”
    She watched them scamper towards Madeline’s room. The thought of the two little girls playing Barbies, and especially that Chloe would be playing Beach Barbie, brought back the memory of Sara McKay’s room. It hurt right in the center of her gut and spread into her heart. That monster had destroyed a child as innocent as her own.
    She would see him into the grave.
    And here she thought tonight would be free of all reminders that evil lurked somewhere outside the door, somewhere inside the city.
    She caught Brendan staring strangely at her, holding out a glass of red wine. “You okay?”
    She took the wine. “Just a little tired. It’s been a long day. How about you? Everything okay with Megan?”
    Brendan turned and headed into the kitchen, which opened directly into the family room. He went behind the center island, took out lettuce, tomato, and carrots and chopped away. Holly sat at a barstool opposite him. She ran her fingers across the jade and black mixed marble. Smooth and cool to the touch.
    “To answer your question about Meg . . . I don’t know that everything is all right. I don’t know what to think anymore. I mean, she’s fifteen, and fifteen-year-old girls act ridiculous sometimes, right?”
    Before Holly could answer, he went on. “She disobeys me, sneaks out to see this misfit boy all the time, spends more time with his family than her own. Hell, I don’t know. She says she’s not, you know, doing it with him. But I’m not sure. Girls these days and in this country . . . In Ireland when I grew up, if a girl or boy disobeyed, a mother and father didn’t take any of that. But here I am taking it. My own father would be embarrassed. But I feel so damn guilty.” He looked up at her and then took a big swig of his wine. “Ah, jeez, look at me ranting and raving. You don’t need to hear all about my problems with my daughter. I am so sorry.”
    Holly glanced over the rim of her wine glass and replied, “I don’t mind, really. What’s the guilt for?”
    The oven buzzer went off, and Brendan removed a foiled pan, opened it up, releasing a cloud of steam. It smelled heavenly, and it made Holly realize that she hadn’t eaten anything since the Thanksgiving feast at noontime.
    “You know, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He dished out the gourmet dinner made up of the chicken, a side dish of wild rice, and the garden salad that he gave a final tossing.
    “This looks divine.” She decided that if he didn’t want to talk, she wouldn’t push it. Maybe she didn’t want to know what he was feeling guilty about anyway. Had he driven their mother away for some reason?
    “I hope you like it. I already fed the girls. I thought it might be nice to have dinner by ourselves.”
    He took their plates over to a table with a bench and a couple of chairs around it. Brendan guided Holly to the bench and seated himself in a chair. Their discussion throughout dinner was much lighter, the main topic being their girls, who once in a while dashed into the room.
    “We