“Brody—” she starts.
My phone rings.
Of course it does.
I pull my phone out, thumb hovering over the voicemail button, and stop.
The number is local. Unfamiliar. But something in my gut twists.
“I should—” I gesture to the phone. “Sorry. Just let me?—”
“It’s okay. Take it.”
I answer. “Hello?”
“Is this Brody Kane?” A man’s voice. Professional. Clipped. The kind of voice that deals with unpleasant situations regularly.
“Yes.”
“This is Michael O’Ryan, security manager at Grand Pines Casino. We have a situation here involving a gentleman claiming to be your father. He’s accumulated some debts and is asking for you. Says you’ll cover him.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. My father. Gambling. Again.
I turn my back to Chloe, and the cold rushes in, pricks the back of my neck.
“Is he—” I stop. Clear my throat. “Is he safe?”
“He’s intoxicated and becoming disruptive. We’d like to resolve this quietly, but we need someone to come get him and settle the immediate situation.”
Translation: Pay what he owes, or we call the cops.
I glance back at Chloe. She’s watching me, concern etched across her face.
“Where do I need to go?”
“Grand Pines Casino, just south of Maple Lake. I can meet you in the lobby when you arrive.”
“I’ll be there in thirty.” I hang up. My hand is shaking as I shove the phone back in my pocket.
“Brody? What’s wrong?”
“It’s my dad.” The words taste like failure. “He’s at a casino. Gambling again. I need to—” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend. “No, you should—Maya might need you. I promise, I’ll be back.”
“Brody—”
“Please.” I’m already backing away, already shutting down, the walls slamming into place like blast doors. “I’ll be back soon. We’ll talk then. I promise.”
I leave without looking back, so I don’t have to see that abandoned, left-in-the-starlight look I’ve seen before. This isn’t like Barcelona.
The drive to Grand Pines Casino is a blur of dark highway and my own spiraling thoughts. The heater blasts hot air that dries out my eyes. Oldies play on the radio, Elvis crooning “Viva Las Vegas,” and I turn it off because I can’t handle the irony.
My hands are tight on the steering wheel. Knuckles white.
I don’t know why I believed him when he said he’d be better.
