And only one person has constant access to this album—Trips’ father.
“I want to visit my parents,” I announce, slowly closing the album, unwilling to ponder the unexpected sincerity the album hints at.
Trips’ father spins to face me, holding out his palm for the album. It feels like I’m drowning yet again as I hand it over, the way he tosses it on his desk like it doesn’t matter conflictingwith the small stroke he couldn’t resist along the spine before he threw it. “And why should I allow that?”
“Because they’re family. My family. And you value family.”
His blue eyes look faded tonight as he inspects me. “This required breaking into my office?”
I shrug. “I was bored; I can’t let my skills get rusty.”
“Petty crime? Why am I not surprised, considering where you grew up?”
Yikes. Sure, my neighborhood wasn’t the best, but it’s not like everybody who grew up there turned into criminals. Although as I’m a criminal now, I guess I don’t have much ground to stand on.
I let him have his sally and wait, suddenly hoping that I’ll actually get to see my dad.
“You found them?” he asks, because of course the wedding planner told him about the returned invitation.
“After you lost them? Yes, I did.” Holding up my new, monitored cell phone, I wave it around. RJ was happy to send the address, assuming there was a reason I was asking for it. After my request for a new liver, I’ve mostly been using the phone to tell my guys how much I love them, with a bit of sexting mixed in.
Whoever is monitoring the device is getting a whole lot of dirt on me, but it probably isn’t the dirt they were hoping for.
The man who holds my fate strides around his desk, the beeps of his safe loud. When he pulls out a manila folder with my name on it, I suppress a shiver and step away from the desk, letting Trips pull my back to his front. A photo from last winter, the one of Trips and me in that alley, is visible as heslides loose the battered invitation. He tosses it across the desk, leaving the folder open. “Make sure they get this.”
“Of course. My dad can’t walk me down the aisle if he doesn’t know I’m getting married.”
He scoffs. “Be back before ten. I’ll be watching your progress, so no side adventures,” he says, pulling out his glasses and settling them onto his nose, before pouring himself his untouchable vice.
Trips and I head to the door, Falk following us.
“And Ms. McElroy?” the manipulator calls, not content without a parting remark.
I pause, not turning, not saying anything. He has nothing on his desk to throw at me besides his pens and his scotch, so I should be safe. Trips turns, just in case, though.
“Never break into my office again. Once is cute. If you do it a second time, it’s your final strike.”
Chapter 34
Clara
The familiar press of my father’s hug makes me weep like I’m a little kid against his chest. I wasn’t expecting to cry, but after months of silence and stricture, he feels like home. He holds me, murmuring soothing nothings in Spanish, likely the same things his mother whispered to him when he was little, the cadence familiar from my own childhood.
“Dad,” I whisper, tugging him closer.
“Clara-girl, I’ve missed you so much,” he says.
Down an unfamiliar hallway of the dingy apartment, a tinkle of broken glass alerts me to my mom’s presence. “Good, now he can stop whining all the time,” my mom mutters, wandering out of the kitchen, a bottle of wine in one hand, her other hand missing a glass.
“Hi Mom,” I say, uncomfortable with Trips and Falk at my back seeing my parents like…this.
My mom waves me off, stumbling farther into the apartment, leaving the rest of us to follow, my dad offering all of us drinks as he pulls out a broom and dustpan, cleaning up the shattered goblet on the kitchen floor.
We all decline his offer, but after his face falls, I ask for some water. And his smile breaks my heart.
My mom curls up on her favorite chair, the TV sound down but the subtitles on, something I’ve never seen before. But then shouts from the neighbor above float down, and my mom reaches for a curtain rod she has beside her for this express purpose and slams it into the ceiling. “Shut up!”
Her words slur, and I turn to my dad, a question in my eyes. He encourages me to follow him back into the kitchen, even though it’s only a handful of feet away from my mom, and barely large enough for both of us to fit, let alone Trips, who hovers in the hallway, his face unreadable.
