Free Thief of Lies by Brenda Drake Page A

generous breakfast the waiter placed in front of me. My head swam. It reminded me of the time Nick took us to Jessie’s party, and I’d guzzled too much spiked punch (no matter what Nick said, I didn’t know it was spiked at the time).
    I lifted the glass of orange juice in front of me and took a long sip. Ever since Friday, I’d felt like I was falling. Like the ground was no longer beneath my feet. Who was I? Or rather, what was I? And who was this man sitting across from me? Was he really my father?
    I clunked the glass down. “So what’s your name?”
    “Carrig. Carrig McCabe.”
    “How do you know I’m your daughter?”
    “Your mother was Marietta, well, Marty, right? She be pregnant with you when she left.”
    I stared at the eggs on my plate, processing his words. “Yeah. She was my mother. Why did she leave?” My gaze went to him. His brows were scrunched, a worried expression on his face.
    “I loved her with all me heart. She left to protect you.”
    “I don’t know anything about my birth father. For all I know, you could be a phony.”
    “As certain as the nose on me face, I be your father.”
    “Then why didn’t you come for me before this?”
    “I’ve searched far and wide for Marietta and me baby,” he said. “Her trail led to New York and then we lost her scent. There weren’t any signs of her after that, and I relinquished all hope of ever finding her.”
    The walls felt like they were closing in on me. My stomach twisted, and I shot to my feet. “Excuse me, I need the restroom.” Afton made to follow me, scooting her chair back. I shook my head, stopping her, and hurried to the bathroom with my heart pounding in my ears.
    My legs were numb and my weight unsteady on them. I leaned against the door, trying to calm my rushing breaths. Panic was a crazy thing. It hit without warning. I’d had several attacks after losing my mother but hadn’t had any since I started playing sports. It taught me how to silence my head, to ease my breaths and control the beast.
    Tacky pictures of flowers hung on the wall in the small bathroom. Only one stall, a sink, and a big rubber plant made up the room. I locked the door and hunched over the sink.
    I wanted Pop.
    Tears burned my lids. I caught them with my fingertips before they fell and then studied my reflection in the mirror. My green eyes had red streaks and my face was paler than normal. My head throbbed, and I loosened my tight ponytail. I gave my image a sharp glance. Get your head in the game, Gia.
    I was losing control.
    “Why didn’t anyone tell me about him?” I said, as if my reflection could hear me. I shook my head and reached for the faucet.
    I did tell you, baby. I flinched at my mom’s voice. It sounded so real. Alive. I glanced around the empty bathroom. My mother was haunting my head. I was definitely on the crazy train now.
    Once during story time, I had asked my mother what my father looked like. She’d tapped my nose and said he had soft green eyes, just like mine. I examined my face in the mirror. The color of my irises, my nose with a slight upturn at the end, and my full lips—all matched his.
    Okay, so he could be my father. Now what? I had to find out all I could about Carrig and his world. I had to know the truth.
    When I returned to my seat, Nick, Afton, and Carrig stared at me as if I was a mental patient just let out of the psych ward.
    “What? I’m fine,” I said.
    “I have something to show you,” Carrig said. He retrieved his wallet from the inside pocket of his trench coat, pulled out a worn photograph, and slid it across the table to me. The edges were tattered and the colors faded. A younger Carrig beamed in the snapshot, his arm wrapped around my mother’s shoulders. Her belly was huge and round, her smile wide and bright.
    I had never seen my mom this happy in a photograph before. We didn’t have many photographs of her back home. There were tons of me with Pop. All taken by my mom. She avoided