Secrets of the Harts

“You’re lying.”

“No, Kris. I’m not.” She looked sad, tired.

But it was probably because of the lies she was spewing. “How can you say all that about him? After all that he’s given you, you dare to say that about him?”

“I’m not lying, Kris. But I am sorry that I wasn’t there for you. And I am sorry that I had been too much of a coward to come back for you. I can understand why you can’t believe your father would have done something like that. But he didn’t have a choice, it was his family’s legacy.”

“I don’t believe you.” I folded my arms, ignoring the flicker of hurt that passed through her eyes.

“I have no reason to lie to you. No reason.” She moved her hand to pat me on my shoulder, probably mistaking it to be some sort of motherly gesture.

I didn’t want her to touch me. I didn’t need her to comfort me because she was lying. In my haste to get away from her, I accidentally toppled the teacup over. It crashed to the floor, shattering loudly. After the shock passed, I felt surprisingly satisfied and not at all apologetic.

“Let me tell you why you would lie. You’re angry with Dad. You’re upset that he didn’t try harder to find you. You want to try and mend your relationship with me so you lie about him, elevating your importance to me—because at least you didn’t lie to me.” With each word, her expression became more pained. Strangely, her pain didn’t give me as pleasure as I thought it would. I forged on. “Tell me, am I right, Alessandra?”

Moisture was filling in her eyes but she said nothing.

I waited, to feel satisfaction that I completely cracked her composure but none came. Instead, I felt nothing but shame. I never behaved like this; I had never claimed to understand someone better than they did. I never tried to manipulate their emotions so that I could get information from their reactions. This wasn’t me. It was Calloway.

Had Dylan been right after all? Was I really more like her than I ever wanted?

Horrified, I glanced at my mother to see that her tears had split over as she struggled to stop them. I had done what I set out to and more, this was enough. This was too much.
I needed to get away from her. So I ran, the same way she had ran from her parents. In a strange twist of fate, maybe I was more like her than I wanted to be as well. Maybe I didn’t know myself.



I was vaguely aware of the dark clouds that loomed over what had been a cloudless blue sky. But I still stood, staring at the tree with white flowers, in their bud stage. Spring was coming, just like when I was ten years old and planted a tree with Dad. He had promised that it would have white flowers when it matured. But he had left me and I had to leave the house before the tree had grown. I never learnt if the tree had white flowers.

A million memories of him flashed through my mind. How he laughed at terrifically lame jokes and how he would try to repeat them to me, before breaking down in laughter himself. How he had tried to give me a talk about how my body was changing when my first period came and how he left before he could finish, leaving both of us embarrassed and awkward the next few days. How his dark blue eyes flashed with anger. The way he never held grudges, the way he could finish a tub of strawberry ice cream (his favourite flavor, which I teased him about because nobody loved strawberry like he did), the way he looked at me—affection mixed with sadness.

Hot tears needled at the back of my eyes. I wiped my cheeks furiously when they rolled down. I missed him so much that it became a constant ache. So I had never let myself think too much about it, aware that if I ever did, the grief may be too much for me to handle. Besides, it wasn’t what he would’ve wanted. Dad never wallowed in sadness, he gained strength and moved on.

And I had tried to do the same. I had tried for five years but it didn’t work and now I was tired. So tired of keeping those memories locked away.

There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to ask him. Would he be proud of me, knowing what I had done with the Agency? Had he really worked with the Mafia? Did he have any regrets?

I felt a raindrop hit my scalp and I stopped wiping my cheeks. There was no point in pretending that today hadn’t unraveled me, made me wonder if I knew the man Dad was or if I had only seen what I wanted to.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, letting my tears mix with rainwater and thinking about him. But it was long enough that I jolted when I heard, from somewhere behind me, “Princess, is that you?”

Foolishly, I turned around and found Dylan staring at me. There was an uncomfortable tug in the pit of my stomach when I realised how I looked and then I wanted to run.

But he sprinted towards me, closer and closer until he was close enough to see what I had been doing. Then Dylan frowned, his thumb wiping away my tears. “What happened? Have you been here the whole time? I was looking for you.”

I didn’t know what to say. There was something wrong with me because I always knew what to say to him. But the words stubbornly refused to come. Instead, I was entirely too aware of how his eyes kept searching my face as though he could wipe out any trace of my sadness, how green they were and how his dark shirt was now soaked and clinging to his body.

Too late, I realised that my white dress was probably soaked as well, it was probably completely see-through. My cheeks flushed and I moved back from him, the sensation to run stronger now.

But he held unto my hand when he saw me stepping back. “What’s wrong? Say something, Kristen. You’re starting to scare me.”

Dylan never called me that before. Never Kristen; always princess. What did it mean?

I stared back at him and the words that came out further embarrassed me. “Did you mean it? Am I turning into Calloway?”

He looked furious now, his fingers clamping down my hand. “I was only being a dickhead. You shouldn’t have taken me seriously. Is this why you didn’t go back to the hotel? I thought you would!”

I ignored his concern and thought of my father again. “People have dreams about what they wanted to be when they’re kids you know. Teachers, doctors, firemen… But I was a weird child. I never thought about any of that. I just wanted to be like my father.” The tears gathered in my eyes again and I closed them, hoping that he wouldn’t see. Instead, I saw something that had sparked my wish to be like him.

I was five years old and I had fallen from the monkey bears, scraping my knee. Dad had been on his phone instead of watching me and I was angry, spiteful enough to try the monkey bars when I never had before. Now it hurt and it made me scared. I don’t remember crying but I must have because my vision was all blurry. And then he came, running. He sat down next to me and wiped the tears from my eyes, wiped the blood away from my knee.

Then he said, his eyes worried, “Kristy, don’t cry. There, I’ll kiss it and make it better, okay?”

He did as he said and I felt better, well enough to stop crying and well enough to give him a wobbly smile.

I thought of him as my hero. But what if he wasn’t one at all? He had worked with the Mafia, ruining lives and probably killing fathers of children. Children who may have thought of their fathers as heroes as well.

“Kristen, what do you need? Can I do anything for you?”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Kiss me and make it better.”

Dylan stared at me like he didn’t know what I was talking about. But he evidently did because he leaned in close, gently pressing his lips against mine. I closed my eyes and didn’t think about my father. In fact, I didn’t think about anything at all.