“That judgy hmm?”
It had been a judgy noise, but he couldn’t help his skepticism. He lifted a shoulder. “Your mother died and he turned into a conman? One person can’t flip the switch on someone’s morality.”
She blinked, and looked away. “You don’t get it.”
“I do. I mean, I get being affected by a spouse’s death. When my dad died, my mother was severely depressed.”
Her eyes returned to his face. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t.” He didn’t like to dwell on those dark days after his father had died. They’d scared him. He and his brother had lived close enough to visit. Their childhood home, once filled with light and parties and energy, had been silent and closed off. “She didn’t eat or sleep or shower. One day, my brother stuck shoes on her feet, put her in the car, and drove her to her therapist’s office. She wasn’t cured then and there, but she eventually learned to find purpose in her friends and us and work. Legitimate work.”
“I’m happy to hear she found something that worked for her. But don’t forget that your mother had the privilege of being rich and well respected. She had resources, including you. She started in a different position than my dad did.”
He nodded at that. His family was privileged. For one, he was lucky that his mother hadn’t been a stranger to therapy. Perhaps Mira’s father could have found a more legitimate purpose if he’d been in another situation, with different support.
Damn it. He wasn’t trying to empathize with the man who had put him in danger. “That’s true,” he allowed.
Her nose twitched. “Actually, I’m not here to defend anyone. You’re probably right.” She shivered.
He took a step toward her, concerned despite himself. “You all right?”
“Yes. Fine,” she said tersely. “A little cold.”
It was cold in here, and the desert chill wasn’t helping. He started to take off his coat, and she shook her head. “I’m okay. I’ll just grab this.” She put on the beaten-up brown leather jacket hanging on the coatrack. It was oversize on her, so she shoved the arms up. He tried not to notice how cute she looked in the menswear.
She frowned, reached into an inside pocket, and pulled out a silver lighter. He recognized real silver when he saw it, and this was beautifully engraved, with a scrolling C on it. “Your dad was a smoker?” he asked.
“No. I mean, yes, he was when he was young, but he kicked the habit before I was born.” She shoved the lighter back into her pocket.
“I could never keep a reminder around like that.”
“You smoked?”
“No.” The last thing he wanted to do was tell her about his sobriety. Telling people he’d stopped drinking always resulted in one of a few reactions: chagrin or pity or morbid curiosity. He didn’t want or need any of that from his ex.
He turned around and busied himself by checking the books on the bookshelf, though he didn’t expect to find a diamond necklace behind any of them. For a few minutes, there was silence in the room while they both searched, broken only by a tiny gasp from Mira. “Did you find anything interesting over there?”
Mira cleared her throat. “Not really, no.”
SHE WASN’T LYING, she told herself, as she reached into the document box she’d opened. She hadn’t found anything pertinent to their quest. But it was something interesting, if only to her.
Compared to the other boxes with meticulously filed documents, this one was empty, save for a tattered brown leather wallet and some childishly scrawled drawings of snowmen and stick people.
The wallet, she recognized as soon as she picked it up. It was probably her imagination that her father’s scent, Old Spice, wafted out to greet her.
The wallet held only a beat-up credit card and an expired license. She stared at her father’s face for a second, the sound of Naveen behind her fading. Vassar had had the photo retaken at some point over the last decade, and this was a man she didn’t know. His hair had gone completely gray, and he’d gained weight, filling out the slim hollows of his face.
When he’d died, Rhea had called her, her voice clogged with tears. Mira had felt bad. Not because she was also heartbroken, but because she couldn’t match her aunt’s energy.
“I’m so sorry . . . gastrointestinal . . . complications . . . cremation . . . ceremony . . .”
The words in that conversation weaved in and out of her memory like a bad radio station. She’d tried to comfort her aunt as best she could, conscious that she must be something of a monster, because the only thing she could feel on her dad’s death was vague empathy for how her aunt must be feeling at losing a brother.
Rhea had picked up on that. She’d quieted down, her tears fading. “I know you had your problems, but he loved you,” she’d said quietly. “He wanted nothing more than to provide for you and your sister.”
Bullshit. If he’d wanted to provide for them, he could have actually gone and worked in a bank. But she’d made an agreeable noise, not eager to rehash her less than rosy childhood with a woman who hadn’t been around for every minute of it.
Had her dad been a monster? No. Had he ever physically abused her? No. Had he made his love conditional on her ability to financially enrich their family, been neglectful and opportunistic, ready to treat his kids as extensions of himself? Yes.
She smoothed her thumb over his license. There was a touch of a smile on his lips and in his eyes.
She slapped the wallet shut. If this was what losing contact with your kids looked like, then it didn’t seem like such a bad life. He looked . . . happy.
Fuck him.
She throttled the surge of feelings. No, no. Better to be cold than hot.
Mira dropped the wallet back into the box and riffled through papers. There was a scrawled M on one with a drawing of four stick people on it. She presumed they were supposed to represent their family? Sejal’s name, half the letters written backward, was on a drawing of a house, snowman in front.
She traced Sejal’s handwriting. She had to stop thinking of how scared and cold and alone her sister must be. Mira wouldn’t be able to function if she didn’t successfully compartmentalize now.
Why would her dad keep these childhood drawings? For that matter, why would he keep that family photo in the desk? He’d kept so few photos of their mother, so much so that she’d hidden the wedding portrait Rhea had snuck her until she’d left home. She’d been sad later that she’d forgotten it.
Once, after Sejal had left, she’d caught him in his office, staring at the exact photo that lay on the desk now.
Unlike other times, he hadn’t tossed it aside, but looked up at her. His eyes had been wet with tears, an open bottle of scotch next to him. You should have seen me then. I wanted to give her the world after we met. And then after she was gone . . . well, I couldn’t seem to get back to where I was. You’re like her, Mira. You help me so much.
And her desire to step into her perfect mom’s shoes had made it easy for him to manipulate her into doing whatever he wanted.
Doesn’t matter. None of this means anything. Look how happy he was without you.
The lighter was heavy in her pocket, and she reached inside to touch it. She’d asked her father why he always kept the thing around once. He’d explained that he liked the reminder that he’d had the willpower to kick at least one addiction.