Nope. It was definitely him. Scott lowered his bag to the nature strip and turned. Sure enough, his father was behind him, looking the same but not the same. Just as tall, just as impatient, but with a wider belly, jowls and webs of grey in his thick black hair. “Hello, dad.”
When he found out he was moving to Melbourne, his father had told him to come and stay with him until he bought a place. Scott had lied and said he was staying at a friend’s place for free. He wasn’t going to live with his father again. Not for any reason. Yet here his was, standing in front of his apartment as though Scott had given him the time and place.
His dad extended his hand for the brisk shake that passed for affection in men he was related to. “How was your flight?”
“Good. How did you…?”
“Called Amy. She told me where your new place was and when you were arriving.”
Right. Of course his dad was in contact with his ex-girlfriend. Scott knew his dad must want something. He’d never have schlepped his ass all the way to South Melbourne to greet his only son on his homecoming. He’d have to invite him inside and figure out what it was. “Okay, so, do you want to come in?”
“No, I want to stand on the front lawn talking. Of course I want to come in. Don’t worry about unlocking the door, I found the key and let myself in.”
Fucking hell.
Whenever Scott spent thirty seconds in his dad’s company, any bad feelings he had were amplified by a thousand. Sure enough, his dad had barely stepped through the front door and he wished a meteor would fall on his head and give themsomethingto talk about. They’d never been close, and after his mother died, the space between them had only grown wider. He’d remarried in Scott’s second year of university. Marina was a softly spoken Lebanese woman who ran his house and helped out with his businesses. Scott had no idea where his father kept finding such kind, patient women, but his mother and stepmother qualified for sainthood.
Scott followed his father into his apartment, noting he’d already turned on all the lights and filled the kettle. “How’s Marina?”
“Fine.” His father kicked the legs of a fake mahogany dining table. “You rent this place with the furniture in?”
“Yeah, I thought it would be…” What did he want to say here? Cheaper? Easier? His dad hated both those things. “…more efficient. Until I can find my own stuff.”
Thankfully, his father grunted his approval. Efficiency, he understood. “Look, I know you must want a shower so I’ll get to the point. I’ve got a favour to ask.”
“Name it,” Scott said, relieved they were getting to business.
His dad shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “You remember the DaSilvas?”
Scott’s rented kitchen had a sudden airless quality. He’d known that name was coming, but he was still taken aback. Maybe because it felt as though he’d dreamed that family up. Met them in a parallel world, like Edward stumbling into Narnia.
Did he remember the DaSilvas? Tabby setting off cherry bombs in the side ally? Nicole winning nationwide academic competitions? Edgar DaSilva asking,“How are you, Scott? Feeling like you’re in charge of your own destiny?”when all Scott felt was that he’d rather die than answer that question.
Did he remember Samantha DaSilva? Her thick black hair and laughing blue eyes? Only in the sense that he’d spend every night of his adolescence sweating through his sheets for her and the mere mention of her name made his stomach tight and his mouth go dry.
“Yes,” he told his father. “I remember the DaSilvas.”
His father grunted his approval. “I need you to go and talk to them.”
“About what?”
“Selling their house.”
Scott felt a familiar sinking sensation. “You don’t still want to buy it?”
“I do,” his father said, his voice full of silk and malice. “I haven’t approached the DaSilvas about it for a long time—”
Not since Edgar DaSilva told you he’d get a restraining order if you didn’t stop harassing him, I’d imagine,Scott thought.What was that? Nine years ago?
“—but things have changed. Now is the right time to strike.”
Scott stared at his father. After he remarried, he’d moved in with Marina and rented out the house where his wife had died. He had no reason to think about, much less bother the DaSilvas, yet he was still obsessed with buying their property and turning it—and the tattoo studio—into rubble.
His father was a bulldog conservative who despised everything the leftie, single parent DaSilva family stood for—but the truth of why he hated them was slipperier. It had something to do with how the DaSilva girls laughed, the way they kissed their boyfriends in the street in full view of everyone. Scott suspected it also had a lot to do with the pots of tea his mother and Edgar had shared on the back porch whenever his dad was out of town with work. He’d come home early one day and found them at it. Later that night, when no one was watching, he smashed his mother’s favourite set—the Royal Albert set she’d gotten as a wedding gift. Scott shook his head, trying to rid himself of those miserable memories. They were ancient history. They weren’t important.
“Why is now the right time to strike?” he asked his father.
“Because their business is going under.”