Never Knowing by Chevy Stevens Page A

downstairs—when he knew we could hear in the kitchen. It was especially bad considering Dad came up after and told everyone he’d just hired a new foreman. Greg has been waiting years for Dad to promote him. Dad stayed for a beer and spent the entire time talking to Evan about fishing. It disgusts me that he plays favorites, but I was also disgusted at myself for feeling proud that he likes my fiancé.
    By the first week of April, I finally felt like my depression was behind me. I was sleeping through the night and staying awake during the day. I was spending hours in my workshop again and getting caught up on projects. I’d been feeling so good I even got up early this morning and went on a shopping bender for Ally. I dropped a ton of money on craft supplies and a Netbook, telling myself it would help her learn. I love buying her things: costumes, books, games, paints, clothes, stuffed animals. If Ally’s happy, I’m happy. As I walked back into my house carrying all the bags, the phone rang.
    “You better come over tonight.” It was my father. And his tone told me I was in trouble—big trouble.
    “What did I do wrong?”
    “I got a call.…”
    Dad paused for an excruciating minute. I held my breath.
    “It says on the Internet that your father’s the Campsite Killer.” His voice was tight with anger, demanding an explanation. I tried to make sense of what he’d just said, but it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.
    “Did you know about this? Is it true?” His words hammered into me again, sending my pulse skyrocketing. This was the last way I wanted them to find out. I thought of Mom, of how hurt she was going to be. I dropped onto the hall bench, closed my eyes, and got it over with.
    “I found my birth mother a couple of months ago.” I took a deep breath, then spat out the rest. “And it looks like my birth father is probably the Campsite Killer.”
    Dad was silent.
    I said, “Who called you?”
    “Big Mike.”
    Dad’s head foreman? How did he find out about this? The man is barely literate. Dad answered my questions for me.
    “He said his daughter found it on Nanaimo News for Now .”
    “You mean that gossip Web site?” I was already running upstairs to my computer.
    Dad’s voice was hard. “You found your birth mother two months ago, but you didn’t say anything? Why didn’t you tell us you were looking for her?”
    “I wanted to, but I just … Hang on, Dad.”
    I typed in the Web site address and found the article.
    Karen Christianson found in Victoria …
    “Oh, no.”
    I tried to read the article, but shock made the words jumble. I caught snippets. Karen Christianson … Only survivor of the Campsite Killer … Julia Laroche … Professor at the University of Victoria. Thirty-three-year-old daughter Sara Gallagher … Family-run business Gallagher Logging in Nanaimo …
    It was out, everything was out.
    Dad said, “How did they know she was your mother?”
    “I have no idea.” I stared at the screen as panicked thoughts careened through my head. How many people had seen the article?
    Dad said, “I’ll call Melanie and Lauren. I want everyone here by six. We’ll talk about it then.”
    “I’ll e-mail the site right away and tell them—”
    “I’ve already called my lawyer. We’ll sue their asses off if they don’t take this article down right away.”
    “Dad, I can handle it.”
    “I’m taking care of it.” His tone made it clear he didn’t think I could handle anything.
    After he hung up I realized he’d said, “Your father’s the Campsite Killer.” Not your birth father, just your father.
    *   *   *

    Now you know why I’m so stressed out, Nadine. After I got off the phone with my dad I read the rest of the article, wanting to throw up the whole time. It had a ton of pictures of Karen Christianson—they even posted her staff photo from the university. I couldn’t believe how much detail was in it about me too, what I do for a living,