He shuts off the TV and then is pivoting the recliner to face me. “Chicken parmigiana?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, I bought chicken parmigiana. Dad, who do you take me for?”
A flash of humor crosses his features. “Just making sure.” Standing from his chair, he inclines his head. “How did you know I hadn’t eaten?”
My shoulders lift. “I took a guess.”
Dark brown eyes meet mine, and I can tell right away he’s happy I’m here. They almost sparkle with amusement. “That was rather presumptuous of you,” he jokes.
“Dad . . .” I place my free hand on my hip and cock it. “It’s six o’clock. There was a very good chance you hadn’t eaten.”
He walks over to me, places his hand on my shoulder, and gives me a squeeze. “Am I that predictable?”
I laugh at that. “Yes, you are.”
His lips spread into a smile. I use the opportunity to look at him. He looks happy. However, it doesn’t diminish the lines on his face and the yellow tint of his skin. “Let’s go eat.”
Together, we walk to the kitchen. I place the bags on the table and then grab paper plates and plastic cutlery.
Once we are both served, we sit in silence, eating and enjoying every bite.
“Are you still working for Felix Bernard?” my father asks as he places his fork down and moves to grab his water. That was a nice surprise, him not reaching for the booze. But I have to assume it’s because he’s ill.
My stomach muscles tighten; I wonder if he will tell me tonight.
“Actually, I’m working on something else.”
He places the glass down and looks at me. The lines on his forehead are more pronounced now—he’s curious. “Care to enlighten me?”
“You know I really can’t do that.” My mouth curves up into a smile.
“Fine. I am happy.” His words are confusing.
What is he happy about? Me not telling him or . . . “Happy about what?”
“I don’t like Felix Bernard. I never liked you working with him.”
His comment has me dropping my fork. “What? Really? But you never said anything.”
He lifts his shoulders. “You never asked.”
“You don’t need to be asked for you to tell me something.” This time, I’m leveling him with my fiercest stare because I know that I’m talking about something else completely.
I wonder if he will catch on to my motives.
His lips thin. Lines form between his brows that resemble the number eleven.
His mouth opens and shuts, but it’s his eyes that tell me everything I need to know, he’s not ready to talk.
“Are you planning on letting me in on why you don’t like Mr. Bernard?” This is my opportunity to press, and I’m not going to miss it. Hopefully Dad plays along.
“I don’t really know him.” Yet there’s a file in his office with a question mark next to his name.
My father is lying.
There is a lot more he’s not being open about.
There are two choices for me right now, I can ask him point-blank, or I can play dumb.
I choose the latter as I cut into my chicken parmigiana. “I didn’t even realize you knew him at all.”
“He does own property in Reddington.” His voice is so nonchalant, it pisses me off. After everything we’ve been through, why is he still holding back? Maybe he’s protecting you.
“He does?”
This is something I didn’t know. How did I not know this? It wasn’t in any of the paperwork. I make a mental note to see what I can find out.
“Really? What property?”
“He owns the shopping mall.”
His words hit me in the chest. The shopping mall? The shopping mall that was built around the time my parents died? If I remember correctly, it was built in a part of town that was once warehouses. An area my parents would never take me. An area the city cleaned up and developed and is now thriving.
Was this the legitimate business he had in town? Did he kill his competition and then build a business to cover up his presence? It sounds plausible, but I would need proof.
What sort of proof, though?
We continue to eat, and when I’m no longer hungry, I start to push my food around my plate.
“Everything okay?” my father asks me, and I stop my movements and look up at him. His plate is cleared, fork down, and he is staring intently at me.
“I’m just thinking . . . ”
“About?”
I want to tell you.
I want to come right out and tell him the truth. But I can’t say that. I have to say something else.
“My new client.” Is that the best you can come up with, Skye? It always goes back to Tobias. That man is never far from my thoughts. I’m addicted to him.
I need help.
An exorcism.
“Who’s this new client? Anyone I know?”
“Tobias Kosta.”
His hand slams down on the table. I’m not sure if it’s shock or anger, but when I meet his gaze, the answer is obvious. Anger. “Are you serious?”
I play dumb again. Everyone knows Tobias Kosta. “Oh, do you know him?”
He shakes his head. “Not personally, only by reputation. Not a good one at that.”
My shoulder muscles tighten. Instantly on edge. The need to defend him pumps through my veins.
“Well, that’s not your place to judge. He’s not what people think,” I snap back. My brain tells me to drop it, but my irrational side that has gotten to know that there is more than meets the eye with Tobias overpowers me.
He’s the type of man who holds you when you cry, my brain screams at me to say, but instead, I bite back that comment, sucking in my cheeks to stop my mouth from speaking things I can’t take back.
“What exactly do you know about what type of man he is?”
Shit. I walked right into that.
“I’ve been working with him for a few weeks now, and I just—”
“Stop. I didn’t make the sacrifices I made, and do the things I needed to do to get you into law school, just so that you could work with the dregs of the earth. That was not what I had in mind when I—” he stops himself.
“What is that supposed to mean? What did you do, Dad?” I lean forward in my chair, my elbows resting on the table.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Of course, it’s my concern. This has to do with me.”
“What I did to pay for your school is not your concern. I worked hard, I busted my ass, and in the end, you got the best education that I could provide you. I thought you’d make the world a better place, but instead, all you’re doing is cleaning it up from the criminals who—” Again, he stops talking.
“The criminals who what?”
“Forget it. There’s no talking to you.”
“Dad?”
He stands from his chair, and I follow suit. “I don’t want to fight with you.” My voice is low, sober.
“We aren’t fighting.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because I’m disappointed in you, Skye.” And then he turns and starts to walk out of the room.
My heart feels heavy. This is not what I wanted when I came here. I don’t know how much time we have, and I don’t want it to end this way.