The Book of Lies

53

I don’t even know what a Book of Lies is,” I tell him.

“I know you found it,” Ellis says, calm as ever. He blocks the way out and pushes his copper hair back from his forehead. “In the wallpaper. The rest of the Map.”

“That’s not what you . . . what’d you call it again? A Book of Lies?”

“Now you’re stalling. People stall when they’re scared, Cal. Scared little boys whose mothers get taken away,” he says. “My father cut me with that same blade.”

I look at my father, then over to Ellis. “You know nothing about me.”

“Right. Next time try saying that without your voice cracking,” Ellis says. “Life is a monster, Calvin. Especially when it doesn’t turn out the way you hoped. But that doesn’t mean you can hide from it.”

This time I don’t say a word.

“Exactly,” Ellis adds. “The Prophet said you’d understand that one.”

In front of me, Serena freezes at the word. Next to her, my dad does the same. The Prophet. Who the hell’s he talking about?

“Ellis, listen to me, when you lost your mom—”

“Don’t try sympathy! I’m not one of your homeless pets!”

“No, you’re just one of those normal guys who spends time with someone named the Prophet. Does that sound like a rational thought to you?” I say.

“How do you think I knew you were coming back here?” Ellis asks.

This time, I’m the one who freezes. No one—not even Roosevelt—knew we were making this second visit to the house. Besides myself, Naomi, and her assistant, the only people who knew were—

I stare again at Serena. Then my father.

I see her only from behind as Serena wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, her whole body shivering. She sways back and forth, barely able to stand. On her right, my dad barely moves at all. He breathes like a bull—slowly and deeply through gritted teeth—puffing faster and faster with each breath. He’s starting to fume. The way he studies Ellis—chin down, stabbing him with an angry glare—my father’s not the least bit scared. Everyone has their breaking point. And the way his grip tightens around the top of the trophy—

“You’re done!” my dad detonates, leaping forward before I even realize he’s moving.

Stumbling backward, Ellis is clearly unprepared. My father’s not fast, but at six foot two, he plows forward like a falling tree. With one hand, he grips Ellis’s shoulder; with the other, he swings the trophy as if it’s the hammer of Thor.

The impact is frightening. Ellis’s jaw is rocked sideways with a gob of flying red spit as the marble base of the trophy slams into the side of his mouth. I was wrong before. When my dad hit Naomi, he was holding back. He’s not holding back anymore.

Ellis tries lifting his gun, but my dad’s momentum, his size—he’s just smothering. Pressing his forearm like a billy club across Ellis’s neck, my father sends Ellis crashing backward into the wall as the shelves of needlepoints and religious candles tumble from their nests. But Ellis was a cop. He knows how to fight back.

Gripping my dad by his lapels, Ellis spins to the right, twirling my father as though they’re ballroom dancing and slamming him backward into the wall. On impact, another shelf of needlepoints and candles tumbles and bounces across the floor.

I go to put Naomi down, but there’s no need. My father’s doing just fine.

Ellis thinks he has the upper hand, but within seconds his eyes go wide, and I realize my dad just kneed him in the nuts. This isn’t a burst of raw rage. This is a prison fight. And with Ellis in his police uniform—I swear my dad’s smiling. It’s already over.

For the past two days, I’ve known my father was hiding something. But as I watch him now—his lip curled in a snarl—I finally see what he was really trying to contain.

“We’re finished,” he whispers to Ellis.

With a final ballroom spin, my father flings Ellis to the right, not even realizing as he sends him whipping backward toward the double-hung window in the hall.

“The glass!” I call out.

He doesn’t hear. Or care.

For a moment, the large glass pane crackles like ice in warm water, and with the full impact of Ellis’s back, shards of glass explode outward like fireworks, sucking Ellis into the wide black hole created by his own weight. As he crashes out the window and disappears, a nasty winter wind leaps inside and swirls through the hall. We hear a thud outside.

Still holding Naomi over my shoulder, I rush to the window, which overlooks the concrete driveway on the west side of the house. Like a bloody snow angel, Ellis is flat on his back, the right side of his face covered with cuts and scrapes. He’s gasping—the wind knocked out of him—but already struggling to his feet. On my far left, at the end of the driveway, Benoni is bucking wildly in the backseat of Ellis’s rental car, her barks muffled by the windows.

Behind me, Serena is bawling, her arms curled around herself.

“Y-You still have the comic strip?” my father asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I spin around and look him straight in the eye. My father looks exhausted, his mouth open, his breathing heavy again. For a moment, I wonder if it’s all an act, but the way he’s cupping his waist . . . I look down and see blood soaking through his shirt. His bullet wound has reopened. Outside, Ellis is almost up, reaching for his gun. We’re in no shape for a second round.

“C’mon,” I tell him, motioning us to the front door. “We need to go.”