Here With Me (Adair Family 1)

“You don’t think he’s a murderer?”

“Do you?” I frowned. “I mean … I do get very angry vibes from him, but I don’t know. And I can’t cross him off the list for an ‘I don’t know.’”

“If it makes you feel better, my gut tells me McCulloch isn’t a murderer. But you’re right. He could be working with someone who has gotten out of line.”

“And the background check on his grandson came back with no red flags?”

“Right. Hardly anything on it. No criminal charges, no debt. Nothing of interest.”

“Damn it,” I whispered, frustrated beyond belief.

“How is Lachlan coping?” Mac asked. “I mean, actually coping?” At my questioning look, my dad shrugged. “He’s not saying much, so I assumed he’d tell you more than he’s telling me.”

Wrong.

I stared stonily at the water. “I know as much as you.”

Hearing my flat tone, Mac cleared his throat. “Do you … want to talk about it?”

And say what? Admit that I was hurt? That I was a fool woman like all the other fool women who came before me? “Not really.”

“What about that phone call from Seth?”

I tensed. We’d been in the security room going over footage when Seth called five days ago. I’d cut him off twice and he kept calling, so I’d answered in front of Mac. My stepfather was worried about Regan again. She wasn’t answering his calls, and he was considering filing a report. It wasn’t the first time my little sister had done this. In fact, when she took off after my shooting, we filed a report, and then she finally got off her ass and called to tell us she was in Bali. Concerned, but pretty sure she was doing her usual irresponsible silent bailing-out on life, I’d explained to Seth the situation at Ardnoch but said I’d come home if he was certain she was in trouble.

He said he wasn’t.

That his gut told him she’d just taken off again.

Seth was just being a dad. I got it. I understood. My stepdad told me he’d take care of it and keep me posted. Then he asked me to be careful and told me he loved me.

Yeah, I had all sorts of guilt riding my shoulders.

“What about it?” I answered Mac’s question about the call.

“Regan.”

“We have a killer to find. Kind of takes priority.”

It took me a few steps, but I realized Mac wasn’t at my side anymore. I stopped to look back.

He stood against the shore, hands in his pockets, a breeze blowing through his longish, salt-and-pepper hair. Fully recovered now, Mac was back in the gym daily, and it showed. My father was a big guy. Strong guy. Something about seeing the hurt on his face, that vulnerability, was worse than seeing it on anyone else. “You don’t trust me.”

I flinched at his statement.

“Even after all our time together, you still don’t trust me. Not with the things that matter.”

Bowing my head, I contemplated my feet and took a deep breath of sea air.

Mac wasn’t wrong.

I clammed up. When it was about things or people I felt deeply about, I clammed up.

“Robbie, I don’t know what else I can say or do to prove that I am a safe place for you.”

Emotion burned in my nose and eyes. I looked up. His eyes, the eyes I’d inherited from him, were bright with mirrored emotion.

And abruptly, I was exhausted.

Not only by my guilt but by denial and mistrust and distance.

I didn’t want that with Mac. “I’m sorry.” I walked to him. The tight, cold mask my face had frozen into slipped. I let him see it all. “I feel like I’m failing.”

He grimaced with sympathy and then pulled me into a hug.

Mac was right.

His arms felt like a safe place.

Trying not to cry, I curled my fingers into his leather jacket and just held on. The stalwart, comforting embrace of a father proved to have the soothing effect I’d been searching for. When I finally relaxed, I eased out of his arms and gave him a grateful smile.

He tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Where do I start?” I began walking again, and Mac fell into step. “There’s the case. McHugh.”

“Again, not your fault.” There was a shared bleakness in my dad’s eyes. “We’re all struggling with that one, Robbie.”

His disconsolate tone made me feel selfish and shortsighted. I’d barely known McHugh. His death was so much worse for my dad. I reached out to squeeze his arm. “You’re doing everything you can.”

Mac ignored my reassurance and asked, “What else is buzzing around in that tough noggin of yours?”

Considering him a moment, I noted the determined look in his eye and let him have the change of subject. I smirked unhappily. “There’s Regan.”

“What’s going on there?”

All the hurt I’d been harboring for a year burned in my gut. “I told you she went backpacking after my shooting. What I didn’t say was that she abandoned me when I needed her.”