Right. Like I’m going to listen to him. Guards shout, firing questions back and forth. Aren’t men supposed to know how to handle things? They think they can keep their heads in emergencies? I’m looking at evidence that states otherwise.
I use the phone to light my way, jogging down the hall to the closet and searching for the panel Dad was talking about. There’s no knob or handle, though I do notice what looks like a split in the drywall. I run my hand over the seam in the wall before I think to push in, which makes a panel swing toward me.
I barely have the chance to gasp in surprise when three men come barreling in, knocking me back against the wall on their way past. I might as well not even be here.
And then another man comes through. He’s holding a gun. I can barely see him in the light coming from the stairwell, but I can make out the way he sneers at me.
Before he lifts the gun and brings the butt of it down against my head.
“There she is.Coming back to me.”
That voice. It’s a voice I was hoping I would never hear again. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. My heart sinks. The disappointment is crushing. It was one thing to get a messagefrom him, but to hear his voice? To actually hear him in the room with me?
It’s not just his voice, either, as I lie here with my eyes closed, wondering if somebody got the number of the truck that hit me because holy shit, my head hurts.
It’s the way he sounds. He’s trying too hard. He’s never sounded this way before—overly warm, gentle, loving. We both know that’s not true. The fakeness makes my skin crawl.
Shuffling footsteps. He’s coming closer. “I know you can hear me. I know you’re awake now. Open those eyes. We have so much to talk about.”
I don’t want to. For weeks, I’ve been forced into conversations I didn’t want to have, into being close to the last person I would ever want to spend time with. Now I’m being forced again.
I’m lying on a bed, and now the mattress sinks at the bottom corner. “I knew you would come through for me. You’re my daughter. I knew deep down inside, you must have understood that little pissant couldn’t take me down.”
When I don’t respond, Dad grunts, “Open your fucking eyes, Aurora. Now.”
That’s more like it. That, I recognize.
As much as I don’t want to obey, I’ve been through this with him too many times to believe it won’t get worse if I don’t. Slowly, I comply, blinking hard to bring him into focus in the room’s dim light. He is watching me closely, leaning in, studying me.
He looks exactly like I remember. What was I expecting? Scars from the fire? I should’ve known better. He probably wasn’t burned at all. He was out of there before the flames could touch him.
“You have no idea how I worried about you.” He gives my knee an awkward pat—I’m covered in a thin blanket, but still histouch makes me sick. There are no windows in the room, so I have the eerie sensation of not knowing the time of day or even where I am, exactly. The only truth I know is sitting with me, leaning in, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to close my eyes again to block him out. “But now you’re back where you belong. With your father. Away from that murdering bastard.”
That’s pretty funny, hearing those words coming from him. Like he’s never killed anybody.
“Where am I?” My mouth is so dry. How long have I been like this? I don’t even want to touch the place on my head where the pain is the worst. That guy hit me hard enough to knock me unconscious. I don’t remember anything about how I got here.
“You’re someplace safe,” he assures me. He’s still trying to sound loving and gentle, but somebody needs to tell him he has to work on his empty expression. His dead eyes. They hold nothing behind them but concern for himself. He can’t really think I’m naïve enough to believe he did any of this for my sake.
“And Liam?” Because I have to know. “Is he…”
I know the answer as soon as his face goes hard, murderous. “My men got a handful of his guys, but the son of a bitch managed to escape somehow. Don’t you worry,” he growls while I take this in. “We’ll catch up to him. He’s going to get everything he deserves for what he’s done.”
How bizarre. Instead of disappointment crushing my heart, something like relief fills it. He doesn’t deserve my relief. He lied again and again. He was only ever using me. I didn’t mean anything besides a business deal. He deserves to die.
Somebody should tell that to my heart, because I don’t think it got the memo.
When I try to sit up, Dad clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “No, no, you need to rest now. I shudder to think what he put you through.”
“I’m fine except for my head.”
“Listen to your father.” He comes dangerously close to snapping and he must hear himself because he dials it back. He really should practice smiling. It looks more like a snarl. “Rest here. I have work to do.”
“But… wait.” This time I sit up as he walks away, crossing the room in a few short steps. That’s how cramped it is. There’s only a small table next to the bed, a lamp, and a bottle of water.
Oh, and a bucket in the corner.
What the hell is he doing?
