Dad,
Mr. Weatherby,
He didn’t deserve a salutation.
She stared at the paper, trying to put into words what she wanted to say, but you hurt me was too benign, and you destroyed me gave him too much power. She started writing the letter, but nothing sounded right. She ripped off and crumpled page after page of weak openings. Was it even possible to put into words the trauma he’d put her through? To explain the lingering effects that caused her to be sitting in a trashed cottage?
She pressed her pen to another piece of paper, trying time and time again, until she was sick to her stomach.
There were no appropriate words. She could cut herself wide open and bleed out in front of him, and it still wouldn’t convey the hurt he’d caused. He’d been cold back then, and she’d damn well bet he was even colder now. This time it was Brant’s voice whispering in her ear. He’s a fucking coward, a goddamn bully . . . You deserve closure, and he needs to pay for what he’s done.
A letter was too easy to ignore.
She rubbed the necklace between her finger and thumb, thinking about Ava. Learn from my mistakes . . . Step into the fire and burn right back.
There was no way she was stepping into the fire. She was going to blow through it like a fire-breathing dragon, turning everything in her path to ash. She grabbed Ava’s letter and drawing, searched the mess for her wallet and keys, and stormed out of the cottage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FUELED BY HER love for Brant and her sisters and the future she wanted with them, Cait had driven through the night to Connecticut and had been sitting in her car in front of the brick-and-glass building where her father worked, hyped up on coffee and fear, since the sun had come over the horizon. She’d been pummeled by flashbacks of her younger self for hours. She remembered sitting in her father’s car in that very parking lot when her grandparents were out of town and she’d had no school. She could still see her father’s thin lips disappearing as he bared his teeth, threatening her before getting out of the car. Sometimes he’d add a painful pinch to her side or squeeze her arm until she was near tears. But she’d known the drill. Smile, be polite, and don’t cause any trouble, or else . . .
She remembered walking into the offices with him, and Barbara, the bright-eyed, brunette receptionist, would greet her excitedly and offer her candy, but of course she wasn’t allowed to accept it. No sweets for troublemakers. She remembered wanting those treats so badly, it had hurt to say No, thank you. I just had breakfast and I’m full, even though she usually hadn’t eaten anything.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat at the thought of facing him. She’d nearly thrown up when she’d seen the bespectacled monster arrive in his shiny sedan an hour ago, wearing an expensive suit and carrying a black briefcase. He was heavier now, his face wrinkled and jowly, but there was no mistaking Stanley Weatherby for anyone else. He reminded her of a wolf disguised as a fluffy pet rather than the vicious predator he was. Her mind screamed for her to drive back to the Cape, but she wasn’t going to let him control one more minute of her life.
She’d had plenty of time to think on the long drive from the Cape, and she’d realized that Brant had known what she’d needed all along. She’d thought she’d had enough closure, but she’d only buried the hurt, turning herself into a secret keeper. Those secrets were cancerous, eating away at her, chipping away at her confidence as evilly as her father had.
She was done.
She was getting closure today, even if it killed her.
One chance. That was all she had to get this right, to say the things she needed to say. For the first time in her life, she wanted an audience, which meant waiting for the parking lot to fill up. She’d checked out the marked parking spaces before selecting her own and had watched his partners arrive minutes after her father had. Now the lot was nearly full.
She pocketed her driver’s license, in case they didn’t believe she was his daughter, and locked her wallet in the glove compartment. When she stepped from the car, she was light-headed from fear, but she forced herself to push through it. She pulled the bottom of her white tank top down over her hips and filled her lungs with the brisk morning air as she crossed the parking lot.
She entered the building, and it smelled the same as it had all those years ago, like overblown egos and dirty money, bringing a rush of anxiety. She fisted her hands, and as she stepped into the elevator, Step into the fire ran through her mind like a mantra. She couldn’t quell the nausea as the floors ticked by. Her arm snaked across her stomach, and she rested her other elbow on her wrist. When the doors opened directly into the law offices of Wilson, Katz, Burger, and Weatherby, it took everything she had to step out of the elevator.
The receptionist looked up and said, “Good morning, welcome to Wilson, Katz, Burger, and Weatherby.”
Her bright eyes hit Cait like a slap in the face, throwing her back in time. She stood frozen in place, her eyes darting to the nameplate on the desk—BARBARA WILCOX—as two men in suits walked through the lobby talking loudly. She felt like the walls were closing in and dragged air into her lungs.
“Can I help you?” Barbara asked.
Breathe. Breathe. “Yes. I’m here to see . . .” In a split second, she knew what she had to do. “I’m here to see my father, Stanley Weatherby.”
Barbara’s brows knitted, and then all at once, her eyes bloomed wide, and she pushed to her feet. “Catherine? Is it really you?”
“Yes. Cait. I’m Cait.”
Barbara hurried around the desk, her eyes damp, and hugged her. “Oh my goodness. Look at you. Your father searched high and low for you. We thought . . . Oh, honey, we thought the worst. Does he know you’re alive?”
Her affection caused Cait’s chest to constrict. Struggling to keep tears at bay, she couldn’t do more than shrug.
“He’ll be overjoyed to see you. Let me take you back to the conference room, where he’s meeting with the partners and associates.”
She ushered Cait through the offices to the glass-walled conference room. Every seat around the large conference table was taken by men and women dressed to the nines and looking at her father. Years of pent-up anger obliterated the softer emotions Barbara had stirred.
“I’ll pull him out so you have privacy,” Barbara offered.
“No” flew from Cait’s lips. “Privacy is the last thing I want.” She threw open the door and strode into the room.
All eyes turned to look at Cait, but hers were locked on the monster sitting at the head of the table. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and her stomach twisted into knots.
“Barbara, what is this?” her father asked with disgust.
“This is your daughter,” Cait said loud and firm, closing the distance between them. She had no idea where the confidence came from, but she held his ghastly stare. “You remember your daughter, don’t you? The one you adopted and were supposed to care for. The one you were supposed to love and feed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The one you locked in a room without meals.” Her voice escalated, and gasps sounded from around the table as she stalked closer, her every word freeing her from his shackles. “The daughter you belittled and hurt. The daughter you told wasn’t worth the air she breathed.” She was vaguely aware of the people sitting near him moving their chairs farther away.