Black Fiction Addiction is so excited to bring you this exclusive excerpt from Yasmin Angoe’s new release, The Ferryman’s Daughter, Book 1 in her new Bloodlines series.
Chapter 12
Sanaa
Sanaa adjusted her cardigan, tapping the tip of her pen against her planner as she scanned for the next item on the agenda for this month’s science department meeting in an attempt to protect herself from the murkiness that her thoughts were trying to draw her into. The normalcy of her daily routine and being at school among seven hundred other people kept her anchored to the present and not languishing in the call of the past.
There had only been the one body, Dani Cho, nothing really to connect to Sanaa’s father . . . or her. No one even knew who her father was, what he’d done. It was her cross to bear. Her darkest secret. They would continue to think he was a quiet academic, a prolific psychologist on the verge of groundbreaking studies on trauma health and support who suddenly disappeared during a trip nearly two decades ago and was presumed dead. They didn’t know about the hidden bunker on their lakefront property. The quiet graves. The boxed-up patient notes and case files on his tedious work that she should have come back when she was old enough and burned. But she could never bring herself to go back to her childhood home or into his study or back to that bunker.
No one knew about her father and her past, or how Dani’s death echoed of him.
Sanaa intended to keep it that way.
By the time a light knock sounded at the door and she called out for the knocker to come in, she’d almost convinced herself that she was okay.
Almost.
Been that way since she was a kid.
She smoothed the cuff of her blouse, then checked her watch. She went over to the computer connected to the overhead projector and wiggled the mouse. Her meeting agenda, in all its black-and-white glory, flickered onto the newly cleaned whiteboard at the front of her classroom, catching her eye so she was temporarily blinded, seeing white, and suddenly watching another whiteboard. In another room. During another time.
2006—Age Thirteen and a Half
She sat in the first row, last seat, her heels lightly brushing the floor. The auditorium was full of anticipation. Every seat full. The room slightly too warm from the numerous cameras flashing.
Her father, Dr. Julian Voss, wore his usual tailored charcoal suit. His voice was low and melodic, at times sonorous. His gestures deliberate, his smile calibrated to charm. And charm them he did.
Sanaa Voss sat straighter in her seat, eyes fixed on the man at the podium. He was her father, and he commanded the room. She should have been bored to tears sitting in on a lecture in his field of existential psychology and trauma recovery, one discussing “the moment when a person’s psyche reaches an existential impasse.”
He was renowned and notable for helping trauma patients “cross the threshold” back into life after loss, depression, or crisis. He was the kind of guy who could make a person unable to look him in the eye because he shone too bright and they were basking in warmth and light of the sun.
That was how Sanaa thought of her father, even though kids her age were supposed to hate their parents or think them the corniest beings on earth. She did not. Julian Voss was her hero. He was the constant in her life. Lean, average build, medium coffee skin, and (apparently, from how she’d heard some of her female teachers comment when they thought no one was listening) very handsome, with deep-brown eyes that captivated and a smile that could warm the coldest heart. Intelligence that was off the charts, with consideration and insight to top off his seeming perfection.
When at the lectern, sitting in front of a room on a panel of peers, or being interviewed about his latest scholarly article, he was in his element, commanding the room like a conductor in front of a symphony.
“. . . Our work,” he said, voice deep and resonating, “must be to know the darkest parts of the human psyche—not to flee from it. We need to embrace our patients’ pain, not mask it, or shield those who come to us from that pain. Because we are our patients’ bridges, right? We help get them beyond where their psyche is, at that particular deadlock that brought them to our doorstep. This . . . existential impasse is the blockade that makes a patient feel unable to go back and regroup because doing so is too painful or unsatisfactory to endure again, nor is the patient able to move forward because the other side of that blockade is unknown and too terrifying. We can help them cross that threshold—that impasse—and go back to a renewed life after loss, depression, or crisis.”
For a lasting second, his words hung in the air, and the audience was spellbound, mesmerized by him. If one didn’t know he was doing a service, one would think he was leading a cult. That was how closely the attendees hung on Julian Voss’s every word.
And then the applause. The crowd leapt to their feet and began to applaud, the rhythm swelling into a standing ovation crescendo.
Sanaa watched him, proudly. She had studied his cadence, his pauses, even the way he pinched the wedding ring he still wore, though he and her mother had separated five years ago. It was an unconscious tic that always left her hopeful that one day her parents would get back together.
She did as he’d instructed earlier and remained in her seat as many in the crowd surged toward the stage to speak to him. The line to greet him lasted forever, but Sanaa stayed put, watching it all. She giggled at her father’s assigned assistant’s ineffective attempts to limit each greeter’s time so they could get her father to the table set up outside, where there was to be a signing.
But her father refused to move, wanting to give each person a chance to speak to him. Finally, the haggard assistant won the battle and pulled Dr. Voss away, forgetting there was a smaller Voss still waiting in the seat. Julian didn’t forget, though. He said nothing, just gave a withering glare before stalking over to Sanaa, grabbing her backpack, and offering his hand. He slung her backpack over his shoulder. It was Hello Kitty, pink and white, and a hilarious contrast to such a serious man.
Sanaa was not upset at being temporarily forgotten. She’d known her father would come back for her as he always had. When he had a firm grasp of her hand, he gave her a little wink, then turned back to the assistant, who was sweating bullets, and lavished a smile upon him, her father’s earlier annoyance wiped away. The assistant, a stocky man who had been reduced to a wriggling mass of nerves and shame, gave an audible sigh of relief.
Her father apologized for being short, explaining they couldn’t forget his little girl—even though she was almost fourteen.
“She the most important person in my world,” Julian told the man affably. “Let’s get those books signed, hmm?”
All was forgiven and forgotten. Her father never held a grudge.
At the signing table, with Sanaa right next to him as if she too had books to sign, Julian worked each visitor like a pro. He laughed easily, shook hands, posed for pictures, and signed books, pamphlets, and whatever they brought for his signature. The air buzzed with admiration.
Then—a woman approached. Early thirties, nervous, and clutching a program. She wore a form-fitting sweater-knit dress and was very pretty. He gave her his undivided attention. She thanked him for his lecture.
“You just really don’t know how much you’ve helped me, Dr. Voss. Your book was my therapy. It got me through the worst time of my life by making me realize that I was standing still. Not moving forward or back.” Her voice quavered like she was in the presence of both a rock star and a saint who’d made her walk again. Julian smiled, reassuring. He said he hoped his words had helped her and that he’d see her around.
Sanaa didn’t understand how, and figured her dad was just saying meaningless pleasantries that held no weight. Besides, they’d traveled to Philly for this event, and they lived in North Carolina. When the heck would he see this lady around again?
The woman nodded, smiling from ear to ear, her light-blue eyes sparkling. Literally. Sanaa swore she could see them twinkle. With effort, the woman was gently ushered away by one of the event workers.
And then . . .
Sanaa saw it. For the very first time.
The shift.
The sudden icy chill that made her shiver.
Her father’s smiled remained on his lips, but not in his eyes. They narrowed. Sharpened. And followed the woman as she disappeared into the massive crowed, studying her like a specimen. It was like there was no one there but the retreating woman, and Julian. Even Sanaa, who he never forgot, was forgotten.
She blinked up at him, confused. Nothing bad had happened, but it didn’t feel right either.
She leaned over to him and tugged at the bottom of his blazer. “Dad?” she whispered, worried that he wasn’t feeling well.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at the woman all the way to the next session she was about to attend.
Julian Voss was somewhere else entirely. Gone was the loving father, the charming lecturer. What was left was something cold. Hungry.
Sanaa shrank away, confused. Unsure. Afraid.
Then, like a light switch had been flipped, Julian Voss was back. Smiling. Gregarious. Signing the last books for his adoring fans. Apologizing as the crowd protested disappointedly when the attendees said that he had to move on.
When he finally turned to her, he was back to his usual self. Later, she realized what she’d seen was the good mask slipping back into place.
He asked, “Ready to go, Sanaa?”
She nodded, because what else could she do? Her mind couldn’t process what she’d just witnessed. All her mind knew was that she didn’t like that father who had peeped out.
But that night, when she dreamed, it was of the woman’s voice echoing in the dark.
And of her father’s empty stare.
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