“Dad’s a narcissist. No way would he ever go to therapy and get properly diagnosed, but he meets all the criteria. And he works in politics. It’s not surprising.” I don’t want to talk about Dad right now. I’ve already had a shitty day, on top of that thinking about how my own father went out of his way to have me fired. And I’m not entirely sure Dad’s not on Tristan’s hit list. As much as I hate my Dad, I don’t want him dead.
My stomach rolls, threatening to empty itself of perfectly good Indian food.
“What about you?” I jump in and ask. “What were your parents like?”
A soft smile plays beneath the edge of his mask as he says. “They were amazing people.”
My belly coils around itself like a snake. I hate the streak of jealousy that pierces me. I’m happy Tristan had good parents, but I’ll never know what that’s like. And, damn, it sucks.
He clears his throat before reaching for something off-screen. “They both died. Mom, when I was eight. Dad,when I was eighteen. I don’t remember much about Mom’s death, but I’ll never forget the day Dad died.”
He holds up his beer and takes a gulp while I wait for his story.
“I was working in our garage with Dad when he fell over, clutching his chest. I went to dial the ambulance, but he told me not to.”
As Tristan’s story continues, his words chill like lukewarm water freezing to ice. “We didn’t have a lot of money. Dad knew he couldn’t afford the ambulance bill, so he asked me to drive him to the hospital. I thought I’d get there in time. They put him on a gurney and took him, but a few minutes later, the doctor came out and said he didn’t make it.”
Tension crackles like fracturing glass in Tristan’s voice. “The doctor said if I’d called an ambulance, there might have been a chance for him, but between dragging Dad into a car when he couldn’t stand and trying to get to the hospital in rush hour traffic…”
Tristan’s words die off.
“But it wasn’t your fault.” It’s not like Tristan gave his dad the heart attack after all. He did what his dad asked.
Tristan scoffs. “The doctor thought otherwise. He lectured me about how EMTs are equipped to handle medical emergencies like this, and I shouldn’t have taken the risk. He basically said it was my fault without saying it’s my fault.”
Anger slices through me, and I don’t know who the doctor is, but I want to pummel him. “That’s terrible. You’d just lost your dad. To lecture you like that. It’s… it’s…” I can’t even find a word to describe how fucking awful that is to do to a grieving son.
When Mom told me Paige died, I was shocked. But notlong after the shock wore off, relief took its place. I never mourned my sister. Not having her angelic presence reminding my parents that I’m their demonic spawn was a gift.
I’ve never lost someone I loved. I can’t imagine the hurt Tristan would have suffered that day.
But I’m angry and hurt for him.
“That was ten years ago, Princess. I’m over it.”
The bottom of his face says he’s not at all over it. Deep lines etch from the corners of his lips to the tip of his chin, his lower lip puffed out in a frown.
“No, you’re not,” I tell him. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Tristan tilts his head like he’s unsure. “Really?”
It’s too much to look at him. So, I hunt for the perfect piece of butter chicken. “Yeah. We’re friends after all.”
“Friends?” A small smirk plays on the corner of his lips. “If that’s what you want, Princess. We can be friends.” He’s agreeing… but the way he’s agreeing doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe I really am just a pawn in his chess game—someone who’s only useful to him while he’s on the warpath to stop this bill.
“Well,” I start to say. “Since we’re friends now and you want information, Dad’s having a fundraising gala next week. Want to come with me?” And be my shield against the horrible people I really don’t want to deal with.
“A gala?” Tristan pauses, like he’s seriously considering it. “I don’t have a suit.”
“You could rent one,” I suggest. “Brent will be there. It’ll be the perfect time. You can drop a pill in his drink or something and finish him off.”
Tristan slowly shakes his head. “No, too many witnesses. And I can’t have my name on the guest list. It’ll be too suspicious. I’ll take care of it.”
I hide my pout behind my wine glass as I take a long sip, feeling silly for asking him to come with me. “Alright. I’ll go on my own.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Once again, I have to handle everything on my own.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
