“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. Who knows?”
“I don’t think you should go back to campus.”
“Why not?”
“Because right now you’re assuming the worst—and remember when you did that with your dad? And how upset you were? You make rash decisions when you’re upset, Sher. You always do. All I’m saying is maybe he’s not lying to you, maybe he’s trying to protect you, and maybe you shouldn’t run back to campus in case he needs you?” She throws her hands in the air. “Just my two cents.”
She’s right.
Sliding out my phone, I send him a quick text now that I have his number again.
ME—I’m really unsettled by our conversation earlier. Are we still together, August? Or was that you breaking up with me? Should I stay or go back to school?
He doesn’t text me back until 1 AM that night.
ENEMY DEAREST—I didn’t break up with you.
Sitting up in bed, I tap out a laser-quick response, only before I’m finished, he sends a second message.
ENEMY DEAREST—Trust me and wait for me. That’s all I ask.
ENEMY DEAREST—I love you.
I toss my phone aside, stare at the wall, and remind myself he’s never let me down before. And Adriana was right—I do sometimes assume the worst.
Now that he’s back in my life, the thought of losing him all over again is terrifying.
Chapter Forty-Four
August
* * *
I haven’t seen Sheridan in two weeks, and I’m fucking dying. But it’s all about to be over. My obsession with justice, relentless determination, and weeks’ worth of interviews and working with the local police means all of this is about to be over. Even if most of them live comfortably in my father’s back pocket, their day in the sun is about to come to an end. They won’t be able to argue the mountain of evidence I’ve collected. The proof of corruption. Either they get on the right side, or they’ll be just as fucked as him in the end.
It’s a deep, dark web. A nightmare to untangle.
But when it’s over, it’ll all have been worth it.
I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing she’s safe, forever out of harm’s way.
I told my father I’d lost interest in her, hoping his radar would cool and whatever scheme he was cooking in the back of his twisted little head would fizzle out. And he bought it. He hasn’t asked about her once. But if he were ever to see us together, it’d be game on. He’d put whatever plan he had in motion before she lived to see her next birthday, I’m certain.
“You ready?” Detective Zimmerman asks.
Another police officer inspects my wires. We’re three blocks from the house, parked in an unmarked van. A minute from now, I’ll head home and confront my father, tell him I know all about the evidence and what he’s really done, and hopefully he’ll talk enough to incriminate himself.
We head to the house, and they park behind a wall of hedges. At the gate, I punch the code, and let myself in. Hands in my pockets, I keep a casual stride, and once inside, I find my father in his study, sipping his nightly Scotch and shouting at someone on his work phone.
I rap three times on the open door. He shoots me a look and points to his phone.
“It’s important,” I mouth.
“Gil, listen, I’ll have to call you back,” Dad says, ending the call. “What? What do you need?”
“I wanted to talk to you about a few things,” I say. “Disturbing things that have recently come to light.”
He folds his hands on his desk, and I take the seat across from him.
The concerned expression on his face morphs into amusement, eyes sparkling and full grin on display.
“All right, son. Tell me, what rumors have you heard this week?”
“I wish I could say they were rumors. Unfortunately I’ve been able to confirm every last one of them.”
“What are you talking about? Quit being so vague. Cut to the chase.” He waves me on.
“Your top drawer,” I say. “Your blackmail drawer. I’ve seen everything inside. I’ve taken pictures. I’ve copied the thumb drives. I’ve spoken to the people whose names are on those folders.”
Color drains from his face, though he keeps his posture rigid.
“I actually spoke with Harold Munson, the retired chief of police who ran the department back when Cynthia Rose was murdered. And again when Mom was killed,” I say. “He’s actually battling Stage IV pancreatic cancer. Not much time left. Also, dying men tend to want a clean conscience before they go. They also want to make sure their family is provided for. I took care of that last part for him—all he had to do was give me a confession.” I pick at my nail. “And damn. Let’s just say it was worth every penny.”
My father leans back in his creaky wooden chair, examining me from a different angle.