Thirty-Two
MADDEN
“Madden.” My father’s voice came over the line, clipped, precise. Annoyed.
“Yes.” I didn’t say his name. Didn’t call him Dad. I never did. There was no version of this conversation that benefitted from pretending we were the kind of people who used casual greetings.
“Why am I hearing about a fire involving my former brother-in-law’s boat from someone other than you?”
My step hitched. Of course he’d heard. And of course he couldn’t be bothered to ask after my wellbeing. He was just irritated that information had reached him without passing through the proper channel.
I leaned my shoulder against the wall halfway up the stairs. “I wasn’t aware I owed you a briefing.”
“You owe me common courtesy.” A pause. “And judgment. Which you’ve never had enough of when it comes to that island.”
My jaw tightened. Damn it. He knew I was here. That hadn’t been part of the plan.
Of course, the police would’ve contacted my uncle. He owned the boat. It would’ve been standard practice. For all I knew, Carson was trying to make a case that I was an arsonist. I should’ve thought of that and headed Uncle James off at the pass before he’d had a chance to contact my father.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
It didn’t really matter whether he meant my being on the island or the fire.
Unwilling to have this conversation near the others, I continued up the stairs and stepped into the guest room we’d been given. “I didn’t think about you at all.”
Silence snapped tight on the line. I’d broken protocol. I always did eventually. But I didn’t have it in me to be more than brutally honest, just now. Not with the image of Gwen’s terror etched into my brain.
“So you went back,” he said.
When we’d moved, he and my mother had effectively cut ties with Hatterwick. They’d assumed I had, too.
“I’m handling some things,” I hedged. “Temporarily.”
A sharp exhale. “Handling what, exactly?”
The weight of the last few hours pressed against my ribs—the images, the implications, the way Gwen’s face had burned itself into the backs of my eyes. None of that was information he was entitled to. None of it would be met with care.
“I’m working. That’s all.”
“That is not an answer.” His voice rose a notch—not shouting, but projecting. Commanding. “You disappeared from that place years ago, and now you resurface in the middle of a police incident tied to family property? Do you understand how that looks?”
I disappeared? As if they’d spirited me away in the night? But there was no sense in correcting him. Not when all he cared about was optics.
“Yes. It looks inconvenient.”
“It looks irresponsible.” Another pause, heavier this time. “You were supposed to be past this. Past them. Past that place.”
He’d never understood why I’d never be past Gwen. He never would.
I swallowed. “I am.” It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
“You’ve wasted enough time chasing problems that aren’t yours,” he continued. “I did not support your education so you could go back and insert yourself into island drama.”
Drama.
Something in my chest hollowed out, and I closed my eyes. “I didn’t ask for your support.” Because why would I ask for a thing that would never be freely given?
“No,” he snapped. “You demanded it. And I provided it with the expectation that you would apply yourself to something worthwhile.”
