“You recognize it?”
“Motherfucker.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m at that address now.”
“What?”
“I’m there. Standing in the bedroom.”
“Are you fucking joking?”
“No, who the fuck lives here, Otto?” I ask, going to the window and checking the street below.
“Give me a sec, it’s just coming thro . . .” He fades off, and my heart pumps faster as a result. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“You’re in FBI Agent Nathan Butler’s apartment.”
Ice glides through my veins. “Butler is their inside man.” I hang up and call Goldie, going to the nightstand and pulling open the drawer, rifling through. Nothing.
I slam it as Goldie answers. “She’s heading east,” she tells me. “Home?”
“Nathan Butler’s their inside man,” I spit urgently, stalking out of the bedroom. “Do not let Beau out of your sight.” Fuck me, all this time, her friend?
I hang up and leave, my mind in chaos, constantly circling around the fact that Butler called Beau and she came straight here.
To kill her?
45
BEAU
On my drive home, I battled with the pull of the steering wheel, fighting the urge to head to James’s and find my escape. A swift recap of my earlier conclusions soon pulled me into line. It also brought the unreasonable feeling of resentment crashing back. He’s a dad. A father. He’s responsible for a person and, God save my soul, I’m injured that that person isn’t me. That all his attention and dedication can’t be just for me—to free me, to take me away, to distract me from life. Anger rises. It’s unreasonable, but I can’t stop it.
I park Dolly, pull my purse onto my shoulder, checking my cell for the thousandth time, and trudge up the path as I try Nath once again. No answer.
I still at the front door when a message flashes up from James.
Hope your friend is okay. Come over when you’re done.
I reply before I can talk myself out of it.
I’m home now. Tired. Speak soon.
I hit send and cringe all over my cell. Speak soon? There are a thousand meanings in those two words, and none of them mean I want to speak soon. No child needs my brokenness in their life.
The moment I open the front door, I see Lawrence coming out of the lounge, and he stops, taking me in, his persona no less hostile than this morning. The atmosphere is spikey, the air tense. “Hi,” I say, closing the door, trying to break the ice.
He nods and continues to the kitchen, looking back over his shoulder. He smiles. It’s small. Nervous. I cock my head in question, and he inhales. “What’s up?” I ask. Perhaps it’s a silly question, given the words we’ve had recently, but that smile? It was apologetic. I pick up my pace and the moment I’m on the threshold of the kitchen, the lingering, crappy atmosphere explodes.
“Dad,” I mumble, seeing my father at the table with Dexter.
“Hello, Beau,” he says, not getting up to greet me. To hug me. To kiss me. He hasn’t seen me in over a year, and all I get is a hello. Not that I want anything more. Not that I expect it. But still, every single time we’re in this place of awkwardness, I wonder why he finds it so fucking hard to embrace me.
“I’ll make tea,” Lawrence sings, starting to clang and clatter around the kitchen, his nerves shot. It only serves to piss me off more. He shouldn’t have invited this man into his home. Not only because of what my father’s done, but because of how he treats Lawrence. It’s nighttime. He should be Zinnea right now, vivacious, bright, and loud. But he’s not. He’s Lawrence, and not even the true version.
All because this man is here.
My teeth grate, and every transgression my father is guilty of steamrolls through my mind. His affair, his abandonment of me and Mom. His absence when she was taken from me. His absence when I hit rock bottom.
“No tea,” I say to Lawrence, my burning eyes on my dad. No. He’s not my dad. He’s a man I’m sorry I used to love. A man I’m sorry I wasted any time on at all, wondering what was wrong with me. Wondering why I wasn’t good enough. Why he struggles so terribly to give me any affection or praise. The more his success and power built over the years, the less loving he became. His gain. My loss. “What do you want?”
He laughs, and it’s nervous. My dad isn’t the nervous kind. He’s bold and unapologetic. He’s thoughtless and insensitive. Then I realize something is missing, and I scan the kitchen, looking for her. For what point, I don’t know. You’d spot Dad’s girlfriend in a crowd of a million, with her masses of fake blonde hair and rubber lips. “Where’s Amber?”
“She’s shopping with friends.”
“I’ll make tea,” Lawrence says again, making more noise. I peek at Dexter. He looks about as comfortable as a cow outside a steak house.