Dwayde shrugs, which seems to be his standard response whenever he’s disinclined to talk.
“I used to play a little in my youth. Not sure how I’d fare these days.” Charles chuckles and rubs his slight paunch. “But I’d be willing to give it a whirl.” His lone smile fades. “I reckon this is difficult for you, son.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Dwayde demands.
“We searched everywhere for you. One day I’ll show you the files from the private investigators,” Charles offers. “You were always in our thoughts and prayers. We never stopped believing we would find you and bring you back home.”
“I already have a home.”
“We’re your family, son. You belong with us.”
“You’re nothing to me!” Dwayde leaps up, dumping the shirt off his lap. “I don’t care about your stupid horses, and I don’t care about being a Franklin. In here,” he says and thumps his chest, “I’m a Torres and they’re my only family!”
“Please, Dwayde—” His grandmother pleads, reaching out to him, but he dodges her arms and runs from the suite.
“Dwayde, wait for me,” I call out just before he’s through the door.
“I’ll go after him,” Charles says, rising to his feet.
“It’s better if I do that. You stay with your wife,” I say, referring to the woman weeping into her hands. As I head for the door, Charles Franklin halts my momentum.
“Ms. Chase?”
I pause with my hand on the knob. “Yes?”
“Perhaps we overreached today with too much, too soon. But we love Dwayde and we will win him back.”
I bristle at his choice of words. “Dwayde is not a Derby prize to be won, Mr. Franklin. He is a twelve-year-old boy who’s been through a lot of turmoil in his young life, and who has finally found stability with the Torreses. You heard him—they’re his family now. So even if you manage to win this case, you will lose. He will resent you for taking him away from them.”
“Perhaps at first,” he concedes. All evidence of his Southern charm is erased and in its place, he exudes the dominant self-assurance that it must take to rise above the obstacles of being a black man in a predominantly white industry and run a multimillion-dollar business. “But make no mistake, Ms. Chase, when Dwayde is reminded of all we can give him, he will settle in where he rightfully belongs.”
“You’re fooling yourself, Mr. Franklin.” I want to say that the life they provided didn’t stop their daughter from turning to drugs or rejecting them, but I don’t. Not until I find out more. “If you truly love Dwayde and want what’s best for him, then I urge you to drop the custody case and be a part of his new life. Love him enough to let that be enough for you.”
I leave Charles Franklin to digest what I’ve said, holding little faith that it will change his mind, and go in search of my client.
Dwayde’s not out in the hall. I try the stairwell. “Dwayde?” I shout, but only my echo returns to me. I rush down six flights, calling his name. Worried that I’m wasting precious time, I yank open the heavy metal door and take the elevator down the remaining floors, my stomach dropping with the descent.
I check my phone on the off chance that he left a message. But there’s nothing. I try his cell number and when it goes straight to voice mail, I text him:
Where r u?
When the elevator doors slide open, I step out into the posh marble lobby. I look past the sculpted lion heads mounted on pillars to the scant number of customers milling around. Dwayde’s not among them. I hope against hope as I make my way outside the entrance that he’s waiting there. But he’s not. And another glance at my phone confirms he still hasn’t responded to my text.
I ask the concierge if he’s seen anyone matching Dwayde’s description leave. He confirms my client left about five minutes ago, but didn’t notice which way Dwayde was headed. I hurry out onto East Walton. Gold Coast is located close to the Magnificent Mile, where prime shopping is a block away, so the street is busy. I crane my neck, looking up one side and then the other. Exhaust fumes from the passing vehicles fill my lungs and a tight sensation squeezes my throat.
I don’t see him anywhere.
SITTING IN FRONT OF MY iMac, I curse the creative muses, which have once again deserted me. I haven’t typed a single word in thirty minutes.
I look at the animated screen saver, a starburst of colors exploding onto the screen—vivid and tangible one minute, fading out and elusive the next—and think of Dee. It bothers me that I can’t get a fix on her. What’s going on beneath that cool, aloof exterior?
She was all buttoned up today in another dark suit, as conservative as the one she was wearing on Wednesday. But if I close my eyes, I can still remember how soft her body felt when I pressed my hand to the deep, sexy dip in her lower back. How the scent of perfume and Dee drifted up to greet me. It was all I could do not to lean in closer and taste the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
Jesus.I give my head a mental shake. What kind of man can’t get the woman who left him cold out of his system after fifteen years and a steady diet of anger and resentment?
Hell, I know I’m not the only poor sucker to ever have my heart fed through a meat grinder. People get dumped all the time and eventually they move on. But it’s the way she did it—so heartless, so callous—that has this stranglehold on me that won’t let go.
Before I can come up with any more excuses for my pathetic weakness, there’s a knock at my door. The only people who have security access to this floor are authorized staff, the Torreses, Dwayde, and my neighbor. If it’s Lisa with another proposition, I just might take her up on it this time. Prove I’m no longer that pussy-whipped, lovesick eighteen-year-old. But it’s not Lisa.
