“He posted something cryptic this morning. I told Tessa about the guy and his hoodie, and she helped me narrow down the search until I found him.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Sip.
Tristan nods. “He admitted it. He even said he was hoping I’d be the one to come and find him. Apparently, he’s a fan of my work.”
I can’t stop the wince before it happens. “A fan?”
Tristan sighs. “Yeah. He admitted to killing your dad. Itold him I didn’t give a fuck about that. I killed him. Shot him. For what he’s done to you.”
Something darkens in Tristan’s eyes—not in a way I’d seen before. No, he never looked so haunted when he talked about his kills.
“Tris?”
“I… I told Tuck I’d never use a gun.” The admission squeezes through the tightness in his voice. “I hadn’t until today. And I’m never going to again. I tossed it into the river on my drive home.”
His eyes well and I press my forehead to his. “You did it to protect me. He’ll understand.”
Tristan cups the back of my head and holds me for a lingering moment, but no tears fall. “God, I feel like a selfish prick,” he says. “Your dad’s dead, and here I am crying for no goddamn reason.”
“At least one of us is crying.”
He plants a tender kiss on the top of my head, and calmness washes over me as I relax under his lips. “It’s been the day from hell,” he says. “Let’s make tonight a little better. For both of us.”
Before I can say anything, Tristan maneuvers me so I’m deposited beside him. He stands, but slips his arms under me and hoists me off the couch and carries me up the stairs.
“What do you have in mind?” God, for once I’m not in the mood for sex. I hope that’s not his plan.
“I was thinking a long bubble bath,” he says as he rounds the corner in the hallway towards the master bedroom. “With some wine. And cake. And if you’re up for it, maybe we can finally start watching M*A*S*H? I have eleven seasons to catch up on.”
My heart swells. I don’t know how I’d make it through today without him to come home to. It’s so damn nice tohave someone I can trust and rely on—someone who can help carry my baggage and take some of the weight off my shoulders. How could I find someone who loves me so much? What have I done to deserve this?
Maybe I didn’t need to do anything. Maybe I needed to be me and admit I’ve deserved love all along.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DAPHNE
I wouldn’t sayI’ve been hiding since Dad’s death, but for the past two weeks after his funeral, I’ve spent every spare minute either at the shelter or filming. Dogs and fictional characters are better than people. People want a comment from me, a tear-filled picture, something to smear in headlines for clicks.
So, I give them nothing.
I don’t worry about watching my face when I’m in public. I don’t watch my face while I film content. And I don’t have to watch my face—or my back—at my therapist’s office. What started out as a good idea for me to unpack my mommy issues has become a twice-a-week necessity. Sorting through my complex feelings about Dad’s death and my minefield of a relationship with Mom has me booking in double-length sessions.
Getting everything off my chest helps. It’s like these sessions put my world into a new perspective. Already, I can see growth in how I’ve handled my relationship with Mom and her grief. She lost her perfect daughter and her husband, so she’s lost her world.
I’ve never felt like part of her world, more like one of her accessories: an out-of-season scarf or a tacky Juicy Couture purse from her modeling days.
At Dad’s funeral, Mom and I kept a polite distance. Tristan stood beside me, my hand in his as he gave it small squeezes throughout the service. I think he spent more time than the Secret Service scanning our surroundings after what had happened.
With him around, I feel safe. Like, for now, my world’s at peace. And with my family out of the spotlight since the Vice President stepped in to fill Dad’s shoes, I can slip into political anonymity.
I don’t have to be the First Daughter. This chapter in my life is about Daphne, the book influencer. Well, still Maggie. I love the wigs and makeup, the anonymity of it all. I can read and talk about stories and enjoy my work. I can hoard books like a happy little book dragon and keep my peace.
With a book in hand, I head downstairs. “Why are you watching the news?” I groan as I settle onto the couch beside Tristan.
I cuddle up on the couch under the blanket with him. His arm scoops me in closer, and his smoky bourbon cologne envelopes me, mixing with a bucket of buttery popcorn on the coffee table. This is heaven.
Apart from the news playing in the background. That’s a buzzkill that’s worse than the batteries in your vibrator dying when you’re close.
