The entire drive there, I practiced everything I was going to say … my epic confrontation. I was going to tell him I knew all about what he did, how he hired my father to kill his in-laws so he could inherit the pharmaceutical company they started from the ground up. I was going to tell him I knew how much he paid my father down to the penny and how he ran into my father—his former classmate—one night, saw he was struggling to provide for his young family, and then made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
But here I stand in front of his receptionist who claims he’s in a meeting and asks if I’d like to leave a message, like this is some fucking phone call.
“No.” I’m seething. “I need to speak to him immediately.”
She stammers as she asks me to have a seat, and then she trots off, disappearing into one of the hallways.
I think about what my father told me, and while I’m still struggling to wrap my head around how someone could so easily put a dollar value on a human life, I will say that I was shocked to hear he took the fall for the whole thing because if he ratted Karrington out, he wouldn’t have been paid a single dime, and he only did it so his family would be provided for.
He claims he gave the quarter million to Mom.
I don’t tell him we didn’t see a single cent of it.
I can’t be certain, but I’m guessing most of it went to the Wild Rose Casino just off the highway.
Before I left today, I asked him one more question—I wanted to know why he took Dallas with him that night. The old man surprised me once more by getting choked up the second I mentioned my brother’s name, and then he started rambling on about how Dallas was always his little shadow, worshipped the ground he walked on and all that. He claimed he needed someone else with him for alibi reasons, and he told Dallas to stay in the car, that he had to run in and chat with a friend for a couple minutes. But for whatever reason, Dallas got out of the car and went into the house, and as soon as he walked in that front door, Karrington’s father-in-law was standing there with a loaded handgun. Shot him at point-blank range. That’s when Dad shot the old man and then his wife came running down the stairs, screaming, a cordless phone in hand, and he shot her too. After that, he threw Dallas over his shoulder and rushed him to the nearest hospital, but he’d already bled out by the time they got there.
Charles’ assistant returns from the hall. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
Perfect.
Every second that ticks by only adds another layer to the animosity I feel toward that sick son of a bitch. While my father is a fucking moron and deserves to rot in prison the rest of his life for what he did, Charles Karrington is just as guilty, and yet he’s been living high off the hog for the last decade.
How he looks himself in the mirror every day is beyond me.
“Madden.” Charles appears from the hallway, greeting me with an audacious smile. I’m guessing he has to put on a show for his employees. God forbid they catch a whiff of his true persona. “Come on back.”
He leads me down a long hallway, toward a set of double doors engraved with Monarch Pharmaceuticals’ logo.
I don’t wait for him to shut the door before I start laying into him.
“You piece of fucking shit—” I begin to say.
“—no,” he interrupts. “You don’t get to march into my goddamn office in the middle of a goddamn work day and make a scene. Now I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing here or why you think it’s okay to walk in here calling me a piece of shit when the real piece of shit is the small-town loser who knocked up my daughter.”
For a second, I disregard everything I came here to say.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“You got her pregnant, you prick,” he says. There’s nothing but contempt in his eyes, like I’m the fucking monster out of the two of us.
“I had no idea …”
“Yeah, well. It doesn’t matter. She’s taking care of it today,” he says. “I’ll be damned if any grandchild of mine has an ounce of your blood.”
Before I have a chance to respond, his double doors swing open and two men in security uniforms come at me. I’m sure he called them right before he came out to get me, knowing he’d have just enough time to say his piece before having me dragged off.
One of the guards reaches for me, but I take a step back, lifting my hands in the air.
I will not be dragged out of here like some criminal.
I leave without saying another word. I’ll deal with him later. All I can think about right now is Brighton and how fucking scared she must be.
Walking back to the parking lot, I call her number, only it goes straight to voicemail.
“Brighton,” I say, “It’s me … call me as soon as you get this. Please. There’s something I want to tell you.”
I leave it at that, hoping that my vagueness might pique her curiosity enough to get her to finally call me back.
Heading back to Olwine, I keep picturing Brighton pregnant with my child. The whole concept of parenthood never really appealed to me, and Dev reminds me on a regular basis that I’d be the worst dad ever because I’d probably never let my kid do anything or go anywhere, but the idea of having a baby with someone like Brighton makes the idea of being a father more palatable.
God, she’d be an amazing mother.
Sweet and tender, funny and intelligent.
And so much love to give …
A warm sensation floods my chest when I picture the three of us. Maybe that’s love, maybe it isn’t. All I know is that I want to be with Brighton. I want to take care of her. Of our child. I’m sure she’s terrified right now, feeling alone and low on options. I can only hope I can get a hold of her before she makes a permanent solution out of a temporary problem.
I can’t imagine Brighton so much as hurting a fly, let alone terminating her own pregnancy. If her parents are forcing her hand in this, I swear to God, there’ll be hell to pay.
And if Brighton gives me another chance … I swear to God, I’ll never let her go.
Forty-Seven
Brighton
* * *
“She’s awake,” an unfamiliar voice says as I come out of anesthesia. The steady beep of machines fills my ear next.
There’s a funny taste in my mouth and my tongue is dry as sandpaper, but my mother is at the ready with a can of 7-Up and a bent straw.
“You did great, sweetie,” she says. “Everything went well. They were able to keep everything intact so …”
She’s referring to my fallopian tube. Funny how she can’t bring herself to say the word, as if me demonstrating the fact that I’m a woman perfectly capable of becoming pregnant wasn’t enough proof to her that I’m no longer a little girl.
My head throbs, likely a side effect of the anesthesia, and I alternate between feeling like I’ve just slept for a million years and wanting to go back to sleep.
“They said you can go home in a couple of hours,” Mom says. “Eloise is prepping your room as we speak. And I spoke to your boss. They’re going to let you have the rest of the week off to recover, though it’ll be unpaid. I told them that wouldn’t be a problem.”