“It’s not too late to leave,” Rio reminds me again.
“I can do this.” My statement is more for me than for him.
Rio blows out a breath. “Okay. I’ll support whatever you want to do. You’re in control here. If at any point during your conversation you want it to end, it ends.”
I give him a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”
“We’re ready,” Huntley announces as he and Cassidy enter the waiting room.
Rio’s nostrils flare as he stands, shielding me from them. “You’re lucky she’s willing to do this. If my client is hurt in any way, my first call will be to SSA Marreli.”
Huntley rolls his eyes, and I jump between them, hoping to stop a fight before it starts. Cassidy intervenes at the same time, directing his words at Rio and me. “We’ll be listening the whole time. Rio, you can listen in too. If he threatens you, we’ll yank you out of there right away.”
I nod my head to let him know I understand. Rio seems to be satisfied with Cassidy’s explanation as well.
Huntley motions to a guard standing near one of the doors, and he guides me into another room with booths along a window that looks into another room. Each booth has a corded phoneattached to its divider. On the other side of the window is a matching phone.
The visiting room is eerily quiet. Fluorescent bulbs are the only source of light in the space. The stillness makes me feel like the walls are going to cave in at any moment.
“So, John Barlett’s your dad, huh?” The guard questions me.
I finally get a good look at the prison guard. His weathered face is adorned with fine lines and sharp features. His light blue eyes have a natural intensity that puts me on edge. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and he looks at me like I’m some exotic artifact in a museum. His uniform is plain and utilitarian. His nametag reads Brad Gill.
Brad seems like the type of man who feels empowered because he’s allowed to carry a gun.
I take an imperceptible step to the side and answer him. “I guess you could say that.”
“What was it like growing up with him?”
His eager expression causes my pulse to roar in my throat. “It was?—”
A deafening buzz cuts off my sentence, saving me from having to come up with a polite response.
Brad whips his head to the side, and I notice the way his hair is neatly styled and glistens in the light, as if he used too much gel to keep it flat.
The clink of metal on metal echoes on the other side of the large window, drawing my attention. I notice the sound of shoes sliding across the floor, as if the person won’t pick up their feet all the way as they walk.
It only takes a few moments before a man in a bright orange jumpsuit comes into view. His wrists and ankles are handcuffed together and connected by another chain. He’s guided forward to a booth, plops down in a seat, and scoots forward. His tired eyes light up when he spots me.
My feet are frozen in place. I can’t move, I can’t speak.
Brad places a hand on my back to lead me to the corresponding booth. My body seems to move on autopilot as I’m forced to sit on the round stool.
My father’s cheeks look hollow, like he’s malnourished. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth make him look older than he is. His skin is lighter than the last time I saw him. I’m sure he doesn’t get much time outside. Despite looking like a ghost, his face is bright, and his smile is wide.
I look nothing like him. He always said I was the spitting image of my mother. The only thing he and I have in common is our eyes.
My father prompts me to pick up the handset next to me. As I do as he directs, he copies my movements.
He raises his hand to the glass like he wants to touch me. His voice comes through the speaker as clear as day. “My Daisy.”
The muscles in my back contract as I resist the urge to quiver, adrenaline flooding my system. I grip the handset tighter, turning my knuckles white. My fear is gone, and in its place is a snarling beast in my chest.
“John,” I reply curtly.
I don’t know why I’m pushing his buttons on purpose. I know he’ll hate it, but I don’t care. I want him to feel the anger I felt when I realized what he had done. I want him fuming so that I’m not alone in my rage, especially since he’s the reason it consumes my entire being.
A muscle in his jaw ticks, and a small part of me feels satisfied.
