Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
It’s bad enough I’m giving him money—if he knew some random ultra-rich psychopath was proposing marriage and trying to knock me up in exchange for paying off his debts, he’d go absolutely ballistic.
I park out front and head inside. I drop the bagels in the kitchen, but don’t spot Dad anywhere. His car’s out front, which is good, because he shouldn’t be driving anymore, but he refuses to give it up. “Dad?” I call out and poke my head up the stairs.
I hear something. It’s faint but coming from his room. Instantly, I’m hit with a jolt of adrenaline, and a million different worst-case scenarios play out in my head: he fell, he had a heart attack, he’s stuck somewhere and can’t get up, or a dozen other indignities. I hurry up the steps and rush into his room—
Only to find him sitting on his bed with his back to me, a photo album open on his lap, weeping into his hands.
I don’t move. I feel glued in place. My father’s shoulders and back shake with sobs, and I don’t know what to do. My insides are mush, and my toes are numb.
I’ve never seen him cry before, not since my mother died. He was always so big, so stoic, so damn strong. Even when he broke down and told me about the scam, he didn’t shed a tear. He keeps it together; that defines my father. He’s dependable. He’s always been my rock.
Now, he looks so small, so horribly sad, and so damn old.
It kills me. It rips my heart in half. I take a step forward, because I need to hug him, I need to tell him that I love him and he gave me the greatest childhood a girl could ever imagine, anything to take away this soul-ripping agony he’s going through.
But he looks up, startled, and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “Emily,” he says and slams the photo album closed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hey, Dad.” I hang, pausing halfway between us. He draws himself up, putting on his mask again, though his eyes are red and bleary. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he says and forces himself to laugh. I want to scream at how he pretends and hides how he feels. “Just looking at old pictures of you and your mom, that’s all. Got a little dust in my eyes.”
“Yeah, totally, a little dust. Need me to vacuum some more?”
“Nah, kiddo. I may be old, but I’m not useless.” He clears his throat and tosses the album aside. “What’re you doing here? I didn’t think you’d show up until later today.”
“Got some extra bagels at work. I thought you might want them.”
“Ah, come on, you keep them. You’ve been looking so damn skinny lately.” He’s one to talk. The man barely eats anymore. My dad is frail. I hate it so much.
He grins at me, shaking his head and trying to discreetly wipe his eyes. I feel like I’m going to break down, but Dad would hate that, and I don’t want to make him have to comfort me when he’s clearly going through so much worse.
“How about we both have one. I’m kind of starving after my shift anyway.”
“Perfect,” he says, drifting to his bathroom. “Just gonna use the john. You go get them toasted, okay?”
“Sure, Dad.” I turn away, because what else can I do? Breaking the illusion would be cruel. He needs his game to keep a piece of himself intact. Otherwise, he’d have to admit how much he’s lost, and I don’t think my father can handle that.
I go downstairs and I toast bagels, feeling like I’m floating, because my father is suffering and I could end it tomorrow. I cry as quietly as I can and make sure that he doesn’t notice, making damn sure that he doesn’t take my own suffering on top of his.
I could fix everything for him and more.
If only I was willing to feed myself to a stranger.
Chapter 9
Simon
I’m lost in the middle of a sea of clinking glasses, forks on plates, and low conversation. The lighting’s low beneath an expensive chandelier, and my father grunts his way through a boring story. The chief of the Chicago PD is a man named Christopher Morgan, and the only thing he loves more than fighting crime and acting like a hot-shot cop is telling boring stories about his boat.
“And that’s when my granddaughter, no more than five years old, hoists this enormous fish over the side and everyone’s screaming as it flops around, making a damn mess, you should’ve seen their faces, Alessandro!” Christopher roars with laughter. He’s a pink-faced older man with heavy wrinkles and white eyebrows. If Central Casting put out a call for distinguished-looking police officer, he’d get the job every time.
“You take your family fishing,” Dad comments, plastering a grimace on his face that’s probably meant to be a smile. “How wonderful.”