Son of the Enemy by Ana Barrons

own voice. “I have no doubt your father was hurt and humiliated that the rest of the world knew his wife had fallen in love with another man, but to reject you because of a superficial resemblance?”
    She hugged herself and continued to talk, almost as though he wasn’t there. “There was a party. I was only fourteen, but I looked older. The guys were mostly football players, and things got out of control. Some neighbor called the cops. When they arrived I was naked in bed with one of the senior boys.”
    John said nothing.
    “They called my father—Marblehead is a small town, and they all knew the famous Dr. Duncan, neurosurgeon. They spared him the indignity of picking up his tramp of a daughter at the police station and brought me to my door.” Her sigh was ragged, and John wanted badly to pull her into his arms and tell her it was okay. “A week later he drove me here to the Grange School, dropped me off and never looked back. I had embarrassed him, just like my mother had by dying and making her infidelity public.”
    “He actually called you a tramp?” She nodded. What kind of monster was her father? “He had no right to inflict that kind of guilt on a young girl.”
    “Maybe it was easier for me to have a reason, instead of believing I was just inherently unlovable.”
    John grasped her shoulders and turned her to him. “Did it ever occur to you that your father didn’t know how to love?” The depth of sadness in her eyes shook him. “That maybe your mother went looking elsewhere because of that? That maybe you did too?”
    “If I had slept with you on Friday night,” she said quietly, “would you still insist that I’m not a tramp?”
    John stared at her. “Do you honestly think I would have considered you a tramp for sleeping with me?” She didn’t answer and fury rose in his gut. “Your father really did a number on your head. He couldn’t have damaged your psyche more if he’d tortured and brainwashed you.”
    She pulled away and walked back to her desk. “Did you come in here for a reason or just to see if you could get a rise out of me? Because if you don’t have something important to talk about, I’d rather you left. I’m very busy.”
    John started counting to ten and stopped at five. He’d never made it to ten in his life. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, okay?”
    Focusing her attention on a stack of papers on top of her desk, she said, “Okay.”
    “I just don’t like you implicitly defending the man who did this to you.”
    “I think we established that it’s none of your business.” She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe I told you all that. I haven’t told anyone here about my parents.”
    Her words both pleased and humbled him. “So if your father hasn’t been sending the flowers, who has?” He pointed to the vase behind her. “Who sent those?”
    “Oh, those are from Thornton,” she said, her tone dismissive. “I have no idea who sent the others. Maybe they’re all coming to the wrong place and they aren’t really for me.”
    He frowned, his unease intensifying. “All of them? How many have you gotten?”
    She pressed her lips together and swallowed. “Seven bouquets.”
    “Seven? Someone has left you seven bouquets and three mutilated squirrels—” At her sheepish expression he asked, “Or have there been more?”
    “One or two,” she admitted, hugging herself.
    He threw up his hands. “Jesus, Hannah! You may be dealing with a stalker here, or worse. Don’t you see that?”
    “I’m sure it’s just a prank.”
    It was obvious she wasn’t sure of any such thing, but for some reason she refused to let on that she was frightened. Pride? Or was she just very good at denial?
    “Okay, fine.” He’d lay off the squirrels for now, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to drop it. At least until he convinced her to call the