Nothing at all.

I fold into myself, curling up on the seat, getting lost in the darkness, in the silence, until my eyes dry on their own and my muscles stop fighting the stiffness, succumbing to the anguish.

An hour passes.

Or two.

Maybe it's even three.

I feel like I've been beaten to a pulp, my bones brittle and on the verge of shattering when I finally step out of the car.

I go inside.

There are no lights on in the house, and I don't hear him, but I seem to know instinctively he's in the den. He always is. I consider going upstairs, going somewhere else, anywhere else, but I'm weak.

I'm weak, and I'm scared, but I'm not a coward. I may have Rita blood in me, but that's not all I am. I'm that man's daughter, but I'm not him. And maybe that makes me stronger than I think.

I stroll that way and peer in. I don't find him at his desk, as I expect. He's sitting on the couch, his head down, cradled in his hands, the gloves discarded on the cushion beside him, lying with a small black gun. I've never seen it before, never even knew he owned a gun. Exhausted, and terrified, I slink to the floor right there in the open doorway, leaning back against the doorframe.

I'm at his mercy now.

"How did you know?" My voice is scratchy, but it surprisingly still works. "How did you find me?"

"Your phone."

I stare at him in the darkness. "My phone?"

"I tracked your phone. I knew it was only a matter of time before you led me right to them."

"You used me." I don't know why that stings so much, but it stirs up my guilt, like it's my fault this all happened. "You used me to find them."

"I tried not to involve you," he says. "I did everything I could not to drag you into it."

"How can you say that?"

"Because it's true." The hard edge, the hint of anger, is back in his voice, as he raises his head to look at me. "It would've been so simple to force you to lead me to your mother, and it would've been easy to get rid of both of you. I could've ended this in a day. But then I saw you, I watched you, and I realized…"

"Realized what?"

"That you had no idea who you were," he says. "You had no idea where you came from. And I shouldn't have cared… it shouldn't have mattered… but you reminded me of someone else, someone who died because of who her father was."

"That's why you couldn't kill me," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I remind you of her."

"No, I couldn't hurt you because you remind me of her," he says. "I would've still killed you… but you would've never seen it coming. You wouldn't have suffered, not like she did. So I did everything I could not to involve you, so you never would've known. I had Santino steal your school files, I followed you, I searched addresses, but your mother was smart. Had you not moved here, had you not walked into Santino's classroom, looking exactly like a woman we all used to know, I probably never would've even caught her trail."

The guilt from a moment ago amasses until it makes it hard to breathe. "Then why didn't you kill me?"

"You know why."

"Because you fell in love with me." My voice is so quiet I'm surprised he hears it. "You still got your revenge."

"No, I didn't. I punished him, instead."

"What's the difference?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

"He didn't suffer," Naz says. "Not as much as I did."

I want to tell him I don't think he would have suffered either way, but I don't think it's worth the breath. Killing us wouldn't have affected John as much as I think Naz believes. Not all men hold the ones they love so closely. If my father could so easily walk away, could live his life surrounded by white picket fences in suburbia, knowing his family was struggling to live, removing the burden of us from his world would've just been a blessing.

Naz knows that deep down inside. He's told me himself—only a coward leaves his family. Nobody mattered more to John than himself.

Maybe that's what stopped Naz, the truth that my father didn't really care about me. Maybe it wasn't love that saved me. Maybe it was the lack of it.

I don't know.

"I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed.

I hate it.

I hate him.

"I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't… you said you meant it… but I know you do."

"But I love you, too… I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I still love you somehow. It's just… how can I feel both ways?"

"Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate… it's not a far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive, sweetheart. You never had a chance."

A chill flows down my spine as he stands up. I watch him warily when he turns my way, seeing the darkness lurking in his eyes. "What am I supposed to do now?"