Page 13 of Hunt for You
PurplePeoplEater:No. New meds. New levels of insomnia. I’m bored and exhausted and procrastinating. Tell me your dreams.
DeadGirlWalking:I dreamed I had a normal day—gym, lunch, around the house—but every second there was a guy watching me. It was hot.
PurplePeoplEater:Sound stalkery.
DeadGirlWalking:Exactly.
PurplePeoplEater:You need therapy.
DeadGirlWalking:Already taken care of.
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Shit.Shit.
I looked at the date on the corner of the screen.
Fuck.
How had an entire week passed already? I groaned and tucked my hair back behind my ears.
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DeadGirlWalking:I gotta go.
PurplePeoplEater:Nature calls?
DeadGirlWalking:No, you pervert. I literally have therapy.
PurplePeoplEater:You’re shitting me.
DeadGirlWalking:I wish. See you tonight.
PurplePeoplEater:No doubt. It’s not like I sleep or anything.
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I sent a GIF of an orange fluffy blob hugging a depressed looking purple fluffy blob, then logged out and went through the process of shutting everything down, my stomach dropping closer to my toes with every window that closed, or screen that disappeared.
When the computer had gone quiet, I reassured myself that I still had an hour to shower and brace. But it didn’t work.
That hour went all too quickly.
“Any progress on a visit to your father?” Gerald asked casually, keeping his eyes down on the papers in front of him so I was staring at the bald pate of his head.
“Going straight for third base,” I drawled. “Bold. Can we evenpretendyou’re going to buy me dinner first?”
He lifted his eyes to shoot me a look over the top of his glasses. “Deflection,” he said, enunciating each syllable perfectly, because that’s what Gerald did. He didn’t need to say more. We’d had this conversation dozens of times.
I stopped pretending. “My father is dead.”
“Your father is being housed in the State Penitentiary.”
“No, the monster that inhabits the body that was once my father is in prison. My dad died when I was seven.” He was the literal nightmare before Christmas.
Gerald pulled his glasses off and let them drop to the desk in front of him, rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose in frustration. “Bridget, we’ve talked about this. You cannot simplydecidesomething is true. The man whose DNA is in your body is alive—and definitelyunwell, and has attempted to reach out to you several times. Whether you like it or not, he is your father. He might die. And this could be your last chance to speak with him before he does.”
“I don’t give two shits whether his body dies or not.”