Cover Your Tracks [HS][2014 VERSION]

36. Wicked Game

"The world was on fire and no one could save me but you. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do . . ."

The sun seems to set ever so slowly in the sky as I watch Harry work. A thin layer of sweat coats his skin, beads of it forming between his brows as he frowns. His shirt had been removed and tossed aside long ago, leaving him shirtless in a pair of black skinny jeans and boots.

I feel horrible as I watch him walk back and forth across the yard from my window. He carries with him pieces of wood that will be used to restructure the fence, each a length of six feet or more. He seems to carry them effortlessly, however, rarely stopping to take breaks in between trips.

There is a sense of familiarity as I stand in my room, parting the curtain that covers my window. My father sits downstairs, glancing outside every now and then to make sure that Harry hasn't run off. According to my father, he is to stay here until he finishes repairing the damage that he is not responsible for, however many nights it takes of him sleeping outside.

I call it inhumane, while my father would tell you the conditions placed upon him would only give him motivation. I disagree, but there is nothing I can say to waver his mind.

Harry walks over to his discarded shirt and picks it up, using it to wipe the sweat away from his face. He then rips one of the sleeves off and fashions it onto his head as a makeshift bandanna to pull his hair out of his face. The sunset behind him casts a light glow around his body and his skin appears to shine with sweat.

I turn away from my window and descent downstairs. My father sits across from the TV, newspaper in hand. He snaps it into place and turns the page, failing to take notice of my presence.

"Dad?" He lowers the newspaper and turns his head towards me. Finally having his attention, I shift on my feet and glance around the room. "Don't you think you were being a little harsh on Harry?"

He frowns at the name coming from my mouth. Sighing, he sets the newspaper down and returns his attention to me.

"No," he says matter of factly. "If I thought I was, I wouldn't have been. People like him benefit from things like that. He needs to be pushed in a new direction."

"How is this helping him?" I retort. "He's just breaking his back to fix a mess he didn't make."

My father raises his eyebrows. "Is that so? Tell me, Lyza, why you are so quick to defend him. It sounds like you care for the boy. And if not him, who else did it?"

"I don't," I lie. "I just don't think what you're doing is right. If he says he didn't do it, I think you should at least considering what he is saying rather than brushing him off."

My father shakes his head in disbelief before leaning forward. "Frankly, I have no reason to believe him. He doesn't have proof that he didn't do it."

"And you don't have proof that he did," I retaliate.

My father stares up at me with a blank expression. He seems disappointed, to say the least, that I am turning on him. I don't care, though, because I will not support something that goes against my views. How can my father be a cop and bring justice to the town when there isn't even justice in our own home?

"Well," he continues, blinking himself awake. The TV is muted, the images flashing upon the screen the only source of light in the dark room. "I've had a long day. I'm going to bed, and I think you should do the same."

"Fine," I spit, running upstairs without another word. Without changing clothes, I turn my light off and climb under my covers, bringing them above my head. My heart beats erratically inside of my chest as I wait and listen for the sound of my father settling down into his room, and the snores that soon follow, ensuring that he is asleep.