“Yeah, I brought you something,” Dad says. “Figured you might be hungry.”
I tear into the bag and practically inhale the two greasy sausage-and-egg sandwiches. I don’t taste any of it when I wash it down with hot black coffee, but I feel better immediately. The exhausted haze has been chased away, my belly no longer fighting itself. Though now I really need to pee.
“Let me say,” Sheriff Nixon speaks up, “I’m sorry about this whole mix-up.”
That’s a start.
“I had a look at the purse,” he continues. “The ID, credit cards, and other personal items clearly all belong to a young lady named Katrina Chetnik.”
I look to my father. “That’s what I tried to tell him.”
Dad nods, then narrows his eyes at the man behind the desk. “Sitting next to a purse at a crowded bar ain’t a crime. Correct?”
“No, it isn’t.” To the sheriff’s credit, he looks irritated with the whole scenario too. Annoyed to have been dragged down here on a Sunday to clear this mess up. “We’ll make an effort to locate the owner.”
Meaning Trina’s problems are just beginning. But I can’t say I care much about that. After spending a night in jail, I’m not about to run interference for her. She knew the risks. In hindsight, it was shitty of her to leave me sitting there with her coke in the first place.
There’s a sharp knock on the door. A moment later, Rusty Randall enters. Apparently called in from home, he’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I do take some small joy in the idea he was woken by an urgent call telling him the boss said get your ass down here.
Randall appraises me, then my father. Nothing about the scene appears to jostle him in the slightest. With his hands on his hips, he stands in the center of the room. “You needed to see me, sir?”
“Rusty, we’ll be sending Ms. West home with our sincere apologies for her trouble. You can take care of the paperwork. I’ll want to see a report on my desk by EOB.”
“Fine,” he says, voice tight.
“Anything you’d like to say?” the sheriff prompts, cocking his head.
Randall doesn’t so much as blink in my direction. “I acted on probable cause for the arrest. My actions were entirely appropriate. Of course, I respect your decision, and will handle that paperwork at once.”
Coward.
But we both know he’d sooner wax his legs than apologize or admit he was wrong. Doesn’t make much difference to me, though, because I couldn’t care less what that man thinks.
“Ronan,” Sheriff Nixon says, “go and get her home. And Ms. West …” He regards me for a moment. “I don’t imagine I’ll see you in here again.”
I’m not sure how much I should read into his remark. Whether he means he’ll see to it there aren’t any further dirty arrests, or that he expects I’ve been scared straight. Either way, no, I don’t believe we’ll be seeing much more of each other. Not if I can help it.
“Not a chance,” I agree.
Despite having my name cleared, the ride home only exacerbates my shame. I might have been wrongfully arrested, but my dad still had to call the sheriff first thing in the morning to get his only daughter out of jail. It was humiliating for me, so I suspect it was no picnic for him, either.
“I’m sorry,” I say, cautiously studying his profile.
He doesn’t respond, intensifying my guilt.
“I get that what I do reflects on you and the business. And even though the drugs weren’t mine, and I wasn’t using, I still placed myself in that situation. I knew Trina had the coke and I should have walked away. ’Cause let’s be honest, a couple years ago, it wouldn’t have been unheard of that the purse would have been mine.”
“First of all,” he says. “I’m not mad.”
He watches the road as his jaw works, like he’s trying to arrange his thoughts.
“Sure, you’ve made some mistakes. A couple years is a long time, though, and you’re not that girl anymore.” His voice softens. “I’d have gone down there no matter what you told me. You’re my daughter, Genevieve.” Dad glances at me. “But let’s be clear. I had no doubt you were telling the truth. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the changes you’ve made. They matter.”
Emotion clogs my throat. It suddenly occurs to me that I’ve spent so much time trying to convince myself I was for real, I missed when other people started to believe it. My dad. My friends. Evan.
I speak through the lump threatening to choke me. “I didn’t want you to think this was me acting out or backsliding. That because of Mom or whatever …” The thought dies on my tongue. He doesn’t acknowledge the mention of her, which I immediately regret. “But that’s not the case at all. I’m trying so hard to be a better person, to take myself more seriously and have others do the same. I would never jeopardize that, especially now that I’ve got a new job starting soon.”
Dad nods slowly. “Right. I don’t know if I said this when you told me about the hotel, but … I’m proud of you, kiddo. This could end up being a big career for you.”
“That’s the plan.” I give him a faint smile. “And no, you didn’t say anything about being proud. If I recall correctly, you said ‘congratulations’ and then kind of grumbled about how Shane will make a terrible office manager.”
He chuckles sheepishly. “I don’t like change.”
“Who does?” I shrug, adding, “Don’t worry, we’re not going to let Shane anywhere near that office. I already promised I’ll help you interview candidates. We’ll find an even better office manager than me.”
“Doubt it,” Dad says gruffly, and damned if that doesn’t make my heart expand with pride. My throat closes up a little too.
“Hey, at least my replacement won’t have a rap sheet,” I say to lighten the mood.
“What’s the deal with Rusty, anyway?” my father asks, glancing over suspiciously. “He have it out for you for some reason?”
Sighing, I tell him the truth. Most of it, anyway; there are still some things I won’t repeat in front of my father. But he gets the gist. How Randall accosted me in the bar. How anger and too much to drink drove me into his living room to traumatize his family. The threats and run-ins since then.
“He blames me for destroying his family,” I admit. “To some extent, I did too.”
“That man did it to himself.” Dad’s features are cold and unforgiving. Randall’s not going to want to bump into him in a dark alley anytime soon.
We ride in silence for a while. I don’t interrupt what feels like his attempt to process all the information I just gave him. At which point I realize we’re taking the long way home. My palms go damp. I guess this is the talk we’ve been putting off since I returned home.
“You’re the most like your mother,” he says suddenly. His eyes remain squarely on the road. “I know you two didn’t get along. But I swear you’re the spitting image of her when she was younger. She was a wild thing, back then.”
I settle back in my seat, staring out the window at the little passing houses. Flickering, blurry images of my mother come to mind. They get fuzzier with every passing day, the details fading.