I just wished my parents hadn’t decided today was the day they held a personal lecture. Of course, that was my assumption, but after the recent weekend, I wouldn’t be surprised if Dad kicked off this chat talking about my love life. Not that I had one.
My family still believed I was seeing Dean and apparently had a lot to say to my parents about it after we left the lunch. In all honesty, I had no idea what was going on there myself. We were acquaintances, and then friends, he indicated he wanted to kiss me, and then went and almost died that same night. Suddenly any chance of talking about that mess evaporated.
I wondered if maybe my pulling away made him change his mind about me. Maybe I should’ve just given him what he wanted. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been thinking about it either. There was a small voice in my head telling me maybe he, like the other boys from my past, viewed kisses as a ticket in. Nothing more than an in-the-moment action because we happened to be standing too close.
Confused and frustrated over which way my feelings and emotions wanted to go, I sat back in the gray waiting room chair with a heavy sigh. Someone, possibly Frank, tried to kill him and I was worried about a stupid little thing that didn’t happen.
The moment was done and gone whether I liked it or not.
I looked across my shoulder through the floor-to-ceiling window behind me, gazing upon the busy street and parking lot four stories below. I didn’t know why, but my brain noted the black car parked by the entrance of the parking lot, sleek and oozing class compared to the other silver or white cars parked around it. I wondered if maybe it belonged to someone important, until my father’s office door opened, and I snapped my attention to him.
He was standing tall in a three-piece, light gray suit, his gun holster strapped across his shoulders under his jacket as he opened his arms wide and grinned. “Lily.”
“Hi, Dad.” My smile was forced as I got to my feet and crossed the room to him. Pulling my arms around his middle as he wrapped me in a hug. As much as I felt comforted by it, I knew the hug was merely a façade to play nice until he brought up what I was really here for.
If Mom couldn’t convince me to stop seeing a bad boy (her words, not mine), Dad might. I was beginning to think that maybe I should just tell them Dean and I weren’t together. Coming clean would be easier than dealing with another lecture I had to pretend to be upset by.
We stepped into his large, new office. The left and right walls were fitted with two bookshelves lined with various books on all things justice and crime. A large window was the back wall, with a view of the city beyond it, and on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room were photos of his family; Jane and I when we were younger sitting on his lap while Mom stood behind him.
The image of a perfect family.
I set my bag down on the floor by my feet as we took our seats, separated by his desk, him with his back to the window. The room smelled of cedar, paperwork, coffee, and hamburgers thanks to the takeaway boxes sitting in the middle of his desk.
“You still like eggs on yours, right?” he asked, sliding one box in my direction.
“I do.” I flipped the lid of the box open, fighting the urge to drool over the deliciously, greasy smell of bacon added to the burger.
Dad smiled to himself as he opened his own box. “So.”
“You can get to the point, Dad. I know why I’m here.” I smiled a little to ease the statement.
He huffed; brows raised. “Alright...” He flipped his box closed and propped his elbows on the desk. Clasping his hands together as he looked across at me. “Your mother and I are worried about you.”
I nodded slowly; my lips pressed together in a smile that was far from amused. Or gentle. “Because of Dean.”
“Men like him aren’t exactly the best choice for girls like you, honey.” His tone was condescending, and his use of the word girls made me feel like I was 13 years old. Like the girl in the picture with her rounded glasses.
And not a woman who could make her own decisions.
Dad sighed as his attention went to the stack of manila folders to his right. “I had your uncle run a background check.”
That wasn’t surprising.
He pulled the one from the top of the pile and slid it across the desk to me. “Go on, take a look.”
Reluctantly, I opened the folder labeled Dean Moretto, realizing I hadn’t known his last name until now. Inside was a stack of papers containing information on his past arrests. The same arrests he rattled off at the family barbecue. In the top right-hand corner of each record was a mugshot. The earliest indicated by his lack of tattoos, and the latest with a black eye and bloodied knuckles as he held up the mugshot sign.
Somehow, he made even his mugshot photos look good as he lazily looked into the camera with his head tilted back just a little. His right eyebrow set with a slight raise as if he was impatient with whoever was taking the photos. Like they were wasting his time.
He was 23 in the last one.
My eyes moved to the shot of his side profile, where his jaw was set at a sharp angle. Something about the even features of his face, the straight slope of his nose, and the barely noticeable, natural curve in the corner of his mouth, had my fingers itching to pick up a pencil and start sketching.
My father cleared his throat and I straightened again.
“This only proves he was telling the truth about his arrests,” I said.
“Yes, but,” he reached across to point to the bottom of the page, and then flipped to the previous paper, and the one before it, indicating to the bail money that was paid each time. “Tell me how the year he turned eighteen, suddenly he managed to make bail every time after. For someone of his...class, it’s a little suspicious.”
