The Last Goodbye by Sarah Mayberry Page A

abruptly when he reached the living room.
    “What have you done?” He turned to face Tyler, his eyes bright with dawning anger and outrage. “Where are all my things?”
    “If you’re talking about those moldering old newspapers you had piled up all over the place, I recycled them. They were a fire hazard and they made the house stink. Not to mention I found a nest of mice in one of the boxes.”
    “You had no right. Those were my papers. My property.” His father was red in the face, the tendons showing in his neck.
    “It was a bunch of useless junk. I have no idea why you were hanging on to them, anyway.”
    “For the crosswords.”
    Tyler blinked. Did his father have any idea how insane he sounded? He’d had years— decades —worth of newspapers stockpiled. Even if his father lived to be a hundred and fifty he’d never get around to all the crossword puzzles in those newspapers.
    “Well, they’re gone now. There’s not much I can do about it, so you might as well get used to it.”
    As far as Tyler was concerned, the subject was closed. He turned away.
    A hand clamped on to his forearm, the grip surprisingly strong.
    “Don’t you turn your back on me and walk away.
    Don’t you dare disrespect me after all I’ve sacrificed for you.”
    His father was trembling with rage, the movement transmitted to Tyler through the grip on his arm. Spittle had formed at the corners of his father’s mouth, and he had a look in his eye that Tyler recognized only too well.
    Violence crackled in the air. It occurred to Tyler that if his father thought he could get away with it, he would have hit Tyler rather than simply grab him. Just like the old days.
    Tyler opened his mouth to tell his father in no uncertain terms to get his hands off him.
    “I’ve got vanilla cake, and a bit of chocolate fudge, so we can have some of both if you like.”
    Ally was standing inside the front door, silhouetted in the morning sunlight.
    Tyler wondered how much she’d heard, what she’d seen. If she could feel the potential for violence vibrating in the air.
    It took him a moment to find his voice. “Great. I’ll put the kettle on.”
    He pushed his father’s hand from his arm. It fell easily. He walked into the kitchen. He stopped in the center of the room, aware that he should be putting water in the kettle but unable to move beyond the sensation of his father’s hand on his arm.
    He’d come here intending to get his father settled at home, then get back to his life. But the next few days seemed to stretch before him unendingly.
    Every time his father challenged him, every time he grew angry or sulky or demanding, Tyler was going to be staring down the past.
    There was so much unresolved between them. So many ugly memories. So much unexpressed grief and outrage and anger.
    For a split second the urge to damn duty to hell, to climb in his pickup and hit the road and leave his father to sort himself out was overwhelming. Tyler could almost taste the freedom and relief the decision would bring. He could go home, back to his life, andpush all this crap into the dark corners again. Never to see the light of day.
    A warm hand landed in the center of his back. Ally stood behind him, the plate of cake in hand.
    “Tell me where everything is and I’ll make some tea,” she said quietly.
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    She didn’t say anything, simply brushed past him and slid the plate onto the table. He watched as she filled the kettle and turned it on, then started rummaging in the cupboards for tea bags.
    “Third cupboard on the left,” he said after watching her search fruitlessly for a few seconds. “Thanks.”
    He crossed the room and collected three mugs. He could smell Ally’s vanilla-spice scent as he placed them in front of her.
    She shot him an assessing glance. “You okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t look okay. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
    He frowned. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
    For