Like I was going to talk willingly to a reporter. I pushed past her, ignored her huff of indignation, rushing after my dad. Because he and I really had to talk.
I caught him halfway home, forced to run after him. But I must have shocked him because when I grabbed his arm and turned him around he stopped and stared down at me like he didn't know who I was for a second. So lost in thought, I guess, he gave me the upper hand for probably the first time in my whole life.
"Where were you the night Pete died?" I hissed that question at him, knowing we were out in the open, that anyone could overhear but wanting to take advantage of the situation.
Dad started like I'd slapped him before shutting down. "Fishing with the guys," he said.
At night. In the dark. Right.
"Mom doesn't know where you
