I would love to, but we’ve got plans with Sally today. Maybe tomorrow you and I could get coffee if you’re free? Let me know.
-Arnold
The note had whipped back through the fire not too long after she had sent hers. That had to be it. Her father never whisked away so suddenly like that, and it scared her. When Arnold opened up to her, admittedly in the midst of his own destruction, about the nature of Ross Manger’s marriage to Jamie now-O’Malley, Desiree had begun to doubt everything she knew. Ross was her father, but he was Eden’s dad. He had groomed Desiree, but he had raised her sister. Never anything but kind, more patient than sometimes even sweet little Eden deserved, she had never seen this coming. She had never been too close to him, having been a bit skeptical of the relationship that had produced her (she learned quite young that she was the result of an extramarital affair), and as such had never called him by anything but legal name, but her little sister loved her Daddy.
And maybe that Daddy was a monster. That to Desiree was true fear.
She had no solid evidence to suggest that their father had gone to see his legitimate children, the ones permitted to exist, especially since Arnold seemed to hate him so much, but all of Desiree’s instincts - something she had apparently not inherited from either parent but rather developed on her own - screamed that it was where he had to be. So she went with it, and, after a bit of pacing, tossed more powder in the fire and commanded the network to take her to the home of Sally Manger.
She stumbled out right in front of Arnold and a brunette she had never met but assumed had to be his (their) older sister. Arnold looked surprised to see her, although not nearly as surprised as Sally, who had to be wondering who on earth she was. But there was no time for introductions. “Have you seen-”
Then Desiree saw him. “Oh my God!”
She rushed to his side, her hand finding his injury without really looking for it. Already the blood was beginning to dry. Desiree placed her ear against his chest and whimpered a desperate, “Come on, Ross.” When she heard no echo of response, she sat up slowly, silent tears sliding down her face.
Sally remained in her place, though she had turned to see what this girl did as she ran past. Arnold, however, walked behind Desiree, placing a hand on her shoulder. “That’s my father.”
Desiree looked up at him. “He’s our father,” she corrected. “I’m his daughter.” She stood up, each muscle forcing through the creeping grief that came to impede her. She was close to him, and at eye level. “What happened to him?”
Arnold glanced at the gun on the floor. He swallowed. “I shot him.”