Bane
Are you coming to surf tomorrow?
Unknown
If she comes with you tomorrow, I want her grandmother to be there.
Trent.
The idea that he’d taken the time to open a message and write to me—spent this time on me—was pitifully thrilling. What was it about this man that made me want to break all my rules? No getting attached, no complicating things, and absolutely no poking the tiger—Jordan Van Der Zee—giving him a reason to pounce on Theo.
I tried to tell myself that this was innocent. I was taking Luna to the beach. Trent was not going to be there. It was reasonable enough. And Luna could really use a one-on-one with the ocean. I opened the first text message, to Bane:
No can do. I’m taking my boss’ daughter to the beach to collect seashells. Next week. x
Then I opened another one, writing, deleting, amending, correcting, deleting again, before finally pressing the send button.
8am/Tobago Beach/by the surfing club.
I walked into the house to find my father sitting at the dining table, which meant he was about to initiate a conversation. One that I most likely didn’t want to have. I slowed my steps, watching him dragging out the chair opposite him with his foot, silently ordering me to take a seat.
Reluctantly, I did.
My life was not seamless. It was made out of patches. There was the surfing and Bane patch. The mentally ill mother patch. The controlling father patch. The Theo patch. And even though they were stitched together, there was never an overlay. Each square stood as its own island. And if there was one thing I hated, it was bathing in the softness and cleanness of the Theo patch before jumping to the rough, worn-out Jordan patch. Which was what was happening right now.
“How is Theodore doing?” He surprised me by asking, but predictably did so while he checked the stock market on his laptop on the table. His eyes were glued to the screen and I tucked my hands between my thighs, trying not to gulp.
“He’s been better.”
“Oh?”
You don’t care, you cold-hearted bastard. So don’t ‘oh’ me. “There’s this special program where they let you visit your family at their house and monitor you throughout. Two nights. He wanted to go.” This time I did swallow the lump in my throat, because how could I not? It sounded too much like a plea, and hearing a ‘no’ would crush me.
“That’s wonderful for the families, Edie. Any news on Rexroth?” He shot me a look, and I faltered.
For the families.
As in not ours. I didn’t have a family.
Talking to Mom about this would get us into an argument again. She’d tell me that she needed to run this by my father and that she was feeling pressured. And Jordan…he took pleasure in ripping us apart. Besides, he’d just said no in his own way.
“Edie?”
I looked up, blinking. He gave me a tight, warning smile, shutting his laptop screen and pushing it aside, folding his arms on his chest. “Rexroth’s flash drive?”
“Still working on it.”
“Why is it taking you so long?”
“I only ever have time with him on Tuesdays,” I said, conveniently leaving out the fact that I’d babysat for him on Friday. If my father cared at all about my whereabouts—which he didn’t—he might’ve thought to ask. Telling Trent not to say anything was pointless. We both knew how dangerous it was—especially after he’d given me so much money.
If he’d felt like a secret before, now he was covert sin.
“And he carries the flash drive with him everywhere. That’s the only place where he keeps everything important.”
“Huh.” Jordan stroked his chin, looking out the window. The sun was beginning to set, and a bluish glow filtered through the curtains. It was time to show him what I’d managed to retrieve from Trent’s apartment when I’d gone there on Friday. I wasn’t proud of stealing it, but that was before he’d given me the money. The fact that he’d barked at me, degraded me, practically thrown me out of his place only helped a little to soothe my burning guilt. I stood up and walked to my backpack, taking out a paid invoice I’d found on his counter, tucked under a bunch of other invoices which were neatly stacked, waiting to be filed, no doubt.
“What am I looking at?” My father frowned at the invoice.
I tapped the upper left side of it. “Amanda Campbell, PI. She is a private investigator. He is using her for something.”
“Where did you find this?” Jordan asked.
The lie slipped from my mouth without a blink. “His office.”
“What do you think this is about?”
“I don’t know him very well, but I’d be surprised to find out it’s about you.” Trent never spoke about my father. Not to me or anyone else at the company. He seemed to disregard him completely. But then what did I really know about the guy? Other than he didn’t like me one bit.