In the Blood Read Online Free

front door, and my stomach plummets. There’s a letter from the prison. I can tell by the envelope. It wouldn’t be left there if it was addressed to Mom, so it’s got to be for me. I hate receiving letters from Dad. He’s written a few times since his arrest, the last time a couple of months ago.
    He never mentions what he’s done or the case, just writes pages of inconsequential crap. It’s as if he thinks that by pretending nothing has happened I’ll forget about it and only remember how things were between us. When he was a regular dad. Which he was. He never did anything to make us think he wasn’t normal. Like the time when the two of us went on a camping trip. We fished all day and cooked what we caught in the evening. We hung out with another guy and his son and had a real good time. I don’t remember Dad looking at the other boy in any sort of sick and perverted way. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind to see if there was anything I missed, but really there wasn’t. He was just Dad. Relaxed and fun. Which makes it all seem even crazier.
    Every time he sends me a letter, I read it over and over but never reply, even though there are things I want to ask him. Like, why? Like, how? Like, what was going through his disgusting mind at the time?
    But I’m not ready. Not yet.
    I take the letter and turn it over and over in my hand, staring at my name written so precisely in black ink. His handwriting’s almost identical to mine. Which was always good for forging his signature when I needed to, but not so good for reminding me that I’m related to a fucking sick bastard.
    Should I read it now, or wait until after my run? Unsure, I go to my bedroom and stand it against the lamp on my desk. After changing into my running gear, I decide to open it, which I do slowly, being hit by the smell of stale cigarettes in the process. Dad never used to smoke, that I know of. Then again, we now know there are a lot of things he did that I didn’t know about.
    I pull out a single sheet, which is folded in two and has a sort of dirty feel to it. Taking a step back, I drop down on the edge of my bed and begin to read. His regimented handwriting, a typical reminder of his obsessive compulsiveness, taunts me. Again, it’s all trivial until I get to the end. After he signs, there’s a PS.
    Try to understand I’m driven to it.
    A shiver shoots down my spine.
    What the fuck?
    After all this time, he’s suddenly admitting it. Why? Does he want my forgiveness? No. No. He can’t believe that I’m going to forgive him. How could I?
    Suddenly, it feels like everything is closing in on me, and I’m overcome by the need to get out of here, so I toss the letter on the bed, grab my iPod, and run downstairs into the kitchen, through the garage and onto the street, where Summer’s already waiting.
    “Come on,” I shout, without even stopping as I pass her and head down the street in the direction of a small park where we often go running.
    “Hey,” she calls from behind, after I’ve run a hundred yards. “Where’s the fire?”
    I grudgingly slow down and jog in one spot, while turning on my music (which I’d forgotten to do), and wait for her to catch up. Her dark brown hair is swept back off her face in a ponytail and it swings from side to side as she runs. Already, she has a little red dot on each of her cheeks from the exertion.
    “Ready?” I ask when she’s close, eager to start pounding the sidewalk with a vengeance.
    “Wait,” she says, leaning forward, and resting on her knees.
    “You said you wanted to run. So let’s run.” My body’s tightly coiled, desperate for its release.
    “Yes,” she says drawing in several breaths. “But I didn’t say anything about breaking Olympic records. I was thinking a medium paced run, so we can talk. But clearly that’s not what you had in mind. And you ignored Dawson when he waved at you.” Her eyes narrow. “He looked really upset.”
    I can’t help but feel