And with them having an understanding, it’ll make it a lot easier to keep the peace in this house.
No pun intended.
I’m not that screwy.
Still, that’s not the only reason I need to talk to Andrea.
“So, about where you were this morning?” I growl.
Her eyes narrow. She leans back, her grip on the door shifts, and I know I’m about to get it slammed in my face. “I was out with friends, Dad. It’s Saturday. I don’t have homework.”
“Not worried about your schoolwork, Violet. You’ve never let me down that way.” I sigh. “Just wondering who you were out with.”
My fist trembles at my side.
If she tells me she was with Clark Patten…
I don’t fucking know.
Maybe I’ll know it wasn’t him, the creep after Peace, even if I hate it.
But if it’s not him, then who the hell is it?
Andrea eyes me suspiciously. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m your father,” I say. “Got a right to know who my daughter’s spending her time with.”
Wrong tack.
I know it before it’s even out of my mouth, but it’s too late.
Her mouth tightens, and she glowers at me. “Unless you’ve got a time machine, I don’t think you can undo who I was with this morning,” she bites off. “So, uh, why does it matter?’
It’s not a question she wants an answer to.
It’s not a question I get a chance to answer.
The door shuts in my face, hard enough to slam in its frame, making the entire wall around it vibrate.
I just stare.
Peace leans out the guest room door again, arching a brow at me. “That went well,” she says lightly.
“Yeah,” I grumble and sigh. “Welcome to the Silverton household.”
* * *
I guess not even Peace is enough to get Andrea to come down for dinner.
It’s a quiet thing. I think Peace is feeling kinda awkward in the house with just the two of us around.
She doesn’t even notice I made broccoli slathered in butter and garlic with dinner.
And I’ve got too much on my mind to tease her over it.
It’s not that things are off between us.
Hell, there’s not really an us to be on.
We’re just on different planets right now. And she doesn’t look like she wants to talk.
So after dinner’s done, I clean up and stuff everything in the dishwasher. She offers to help, but I’m a stubborn SOB.
I got rules about houseguests, and houseguests don’t work.
So with a faint smile and a murmur of thanks, she drifts upstairs to her room.
I head out back to the deck with a beer.
I know. I know I’m shutting her out. I know I shouldn’t, but fuck. I don’t know.
Andrea’s my daughter.
I gotta handle this myself, and not put it on anyone else. Peace doesn’t need to hear me worrying and getting all twisted up inside my own head.
She’s got her own life, her own problems.
I don’t need to pull her into mine.
I stare out over the snowy night as I crack my beer, and forget to even take a sip. I’m just fixated on the silhouettes of the trees against the sky, and I can’t stop thinking about that truck Peace described. The guy.
I can name a ton of tall, lean guys in town. I wish she’d seen his eye color, might narrow things down. But that truck sticks in my head.
So does one perp.
Clark’s uncle, Roger Patten, rents trucks for out of town work, sometimes.
He does these flashy things for rock concerts and like, EDM shows. He can’t show up there in his grungy old beat-up camper with the big rust spots eaten out of the sides.
So he’ll rent a big truck, something that looks professional. Usually slaps a removable decal with his company’s name on the side. Dolls it up like it’s a company car.
Peel the decal off, though…
I glug my beer down in fast, angry swallows.
Without the sticker, Clark would have the perfect untraceable vehicle, whenever his uncle turns it back in to the rental place.
Fuck, I hate thinking like this.
Especially hate thinking that punk-ass kid might’ve tried to hurt Peace.
It’s like thinking her name summons her.
There’s a soft tread inside the kitchen a little while later, then the back door whizzes open.
“Hey.” Her voice hits my back, warm as day.
I hadn’t even realized I was freezing, my ungloved fingers numb and the tip of my nose frozen even with the fire pit crackling down to embers next to me. Not till that pixie’s warm presence hits, beckoning as alluringly as ever.
“Do you ever sleep?” she teases gently. “Don’t stay up on my account. Promise I’m not waiting to ambush you.”
I can’t help a smile.
She just brings it out of me.
I glance over my shoulder. She’s in her pajamas, an oversized pair of pants with sailboats all over the off-white silk, plus a little clinging tank top just barely visible under her oversized coat. Her feet are tucked away, nice and warm in a giant pair of fuzzy pink bunny slippers with trailing floppy ears.