Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
“I think you can, which is why I shouldn’t have done what I just did. A baby doesn’t belong in a warzone and I want some time with you, Harper, without all the rest of this.”
“Me, too,” I say and my stomach grumbles. I laugh. “I clearly need to eat.” I search his face. “You okay?”
“I’m good,” he says, but his tone is hollow.
I’d say more, but I’m not sure that’s what he needs from me right now. I back away from him and grab my boots, sitting down to pull them on. By the time I’ve laced them up, he’s got a cube in his hand, and I know he’s calming the numbers in his head. “Replay the message.”
I’m not sure if that’s a grand idea, but I don’t fight him. I reach for my phone and hit the replay button:
Listen to me, Harper. I’m here in the city for you. If anything happens to you, your mother will never forgive me and I love her too much to see her suffer you as a loss. Eric is not a good person. He’s dangerous and anything you think you know about what’s going on, you don’t. Come to my hotel. The Ritz, room 1501. Find a way. I’ll be here for twenty-four hours. Come sooner than later. I worry for you every moment you’re with him.
The message ends and I want to talk about how I reply to his father, but there’s a tic in his jaw, and his grip on the cube is white knuckled. This is when his magic happens, when he plots big business and big personal matters. I sit back, and just choose to be present.
A full five minutes later he asks, “What did that message mean to you?”
It’s a question I’ve been sitting here thinking about and my answer comes quickly. “He’s desperate. Things aren’t going his way so he’s trying to turn the tide. He thinks turning me against you will be how he does that. He’ll probably try to use saving my father’s company to do so, but he’ll fail. What does it mean to you?”
“Ten things,” he says. “Twenty. Nothing.”
I glance down at his inked arm, at one of the only words written out in letters, not numbers: Honesty. It resonates with me and this moment. It’s everything he wants in his life, a contrast to the lies that represent the Kingstons, his father specifically.
It’s how I understand what he’s saying. “It’s a lie. He might not even want to meet with me. It’s a distraction.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes, followed by approval. I’ve understood him correctly and this pleases him. “Yes,” he confirms, “and he’s putting a lot of effort into the lie. He’s scared.”
“Of what? The mob?”
He pushes to his feet and offers me his hand. “Let’s get you some food.”
I stand and say, “What’s he scared of?”
“Me,” he says. “He’s scared of me.”
Chapter seventy
Eric
The past…
Only half an hour after my father pulls me out of that social worker’s office, I’m at the Kingston mansion. He parks in the garage and calls over his shoulder. “Get out.”
I want to punch the window. I want to scream. I want to hit him. I don’t get out of the car. Meanwhile, my “father” is already walking into the house. I want to turn and leave. Instead, like the puppy dog I am tonight, I relent, and get out of the car. I have no choice. I have nowhere else to go. I close my hand around my mother’s note, and glance around the garage, suddenly aware of the collection of three sports cars and several motorcycles, all more expensive, I’m certain, than the trailer I’ve called home these recent years.
I hate this place already.
“Get in here!” my father grumbles, leaning out into the garage door from inside the house.
I hate him.
He probably thinks I’m planning to steal one of the cars.
I don’t want anything from this man.
I cross the garage and enter what turns out to be a stairwell. My father disappears out some door at the top as I start climbing. Once I’m at the door he’d departed, I exit to a foyer and he’s not even there. A plump older woman wearing an apron greets me.
“Hello, Eric,” she says. “I’m Delia, the housekeeper. I’ll show you to your new room.” There is grief in her—sadness for me. She knows about my mother.
“Thank you,” I say tightly, wondering if the rest of the world feels pity for me. I don’t want pity. My mother didn’t accept it when she was sick. She’d be ashamed if I accepted it now.
Delia heads up a winding wood-railed stairwell, but she doesn’t leave me behind like my father. She waits on me. When I join her, she gives me a warm look. “You can do this. I know you can.”