Shadow and Stars

Nine

When Dad sticks his head in my bedroom and asks me to go to Home Depot on Sunday morning, I take him up on his offer without hesitation. Normally, I wouldn't want to get up at 7 a.m. on a weekend to drive an hour to go to the closest home improvement store, but this time, I have a motive.

Not that spending time with my Dad isn't fun; in fact, it's one of my favorite things to do. However, one of my least favorite things to do is get up early, and Home Depot is not my idea of a good time.

But all I've been able to think about since my last chat with Julian is the Crescent and its sinister past, especially the alleged suicide from the 90s. When I got home from the library the other day, I pulled out my dad's yearbook from the bookshelf in the den, and it was just as I'd suspected—my father was  in the class of 1993.

I have no choice but to ask him about it.

It isn't until we are halfway to Home Depot and I'm sipping on my morning iced coffee that I broach the subject. "Dad, remember I told you about that history project I have to do with a partner?" I ask, fiddling with a loose thread on my jeans.

"Yeah. How's that going? What's the assignment?"

He doesn't glance at me as I lie. "It's going fine. We have to research an Arkansas landmark and guess which one we got?" After a dramatic pause I say, "The Crescent!"

"Oh? Well, aren't you lucky; your old dad happens to be knowledgeable on the subject," he says, but there's another layer to his tone that I can't pinpoint.

"Yeah, that's what I told Julian, and he was—"

Dad wiggles his eyebrows and winks at me. "Julian? Who's that?"

Heat creeps up my neck, and I elbow Dad across the center console. "Stop it. He's my partner for the project. Anyway," I continue, "the hotel has always fascinated him."

"Him and every other kid that grew up in this town," Dad says, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, but he knows a lot," I say, keeping my voice casual. "He already made a good portion of the PowerPoint, but there was something I wanted to ask you about."

"What's that?"

"In 1993, someone died at prom, and I got to thinking...wasn't that the year you graduated?"

I can almost feel the tension rolling off my father, and I regret asking the question. It's a solid thirty seconds before he says anything.

"Yes, it was," he murmurs, and he's quiet for so long that I almost ask him if he is okay. "Mark Easton was my best friend," he whispers, and my gasp fills the car.

"What?" My entire body breaks out into goosebumps. "Wait, you—you were on the roof, weren't you?"

Dad pulls his lips between his teeth and lets out a brief sigh. "I was."

I turn my entire body in my seat as Dad parks the car in front of the store. "Dad, I—I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"You couldn't have. I haven't talked about Mark since...well, since the accident." Dad's cheeks are flushed, and there are unshed tears in his eyes.

Accident. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

Shaking his head, he wipes the tears away. "It's okay, ladybug. It might be nice to tell someone, considering I don't believe his story was ever actually told."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want to go get some more coffee?" he asks, and that I still have half a cup in my hand barely even registers as I nod.