Mick slid his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. He was doing very well for himself. His coat was cashmere, his shoes were designer, as was his suit. But Kinga wasn’t impressed and she’d lost all respect for the boy she’d grown up with when he’d backhanded her after Jas’s funeral. For that, she’d never forgiven him.
He’d not only blamed her for Jas’s death but, by assaulting her, he’d taken away her trust in men, in people generally.
“I wanted to tell you that I am entering politics. I am going to run for mayor of Portland. I plan to run on a law-and-order ticket, making our town safe again type of thing. I have a big press conference announcing the news next month.”
Kinga’s heart sank. Jesus. Why was life punishing her?
“And you’re asking my permission?” Kinga sarcastically asked, knowing her statement was the exact opposite of the truth.
Mick snorted. “As if. No, I want you to get me an audience with Jas’s father so that I can explain my intentions. He’s not taking my calls and he won’t meet with me.”
Mick had to be desperate if he was reaching out to her. Kinga narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “That could be because you’ve used his daughter’s death in your company’s promotional videos. Why do you want to see him?”
When he didn’t answer, a thought crossed Kinga’s mind. Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God, you want him to endorse you!”
Mick didn’t look even remotely embarrassed. He simply shrugged. “It’s politics, Kinga.”
“It’ssick, Mick! You’ve spent years capitalizing on her tragic death and you want her father to simply forget that? You son of a bitch!” Kinga shouted, furious beyond belief. “No, I will not pass on your message, but I will warn him about you. Maybe Seth will campaign against you.”
Mick’s strong hand shot out to grip her forearm and his fingertips dug into her skin. “Be very careful, Kinga.”
Kinga, refusing to show her terror, jerked her arm from his grip. “Don’t you ever lay hands on me again, Pritchard! I am not that sad, young girl I once was!”
His eyes narrowed and his expression darkened. She recognized that look—she’d seen it before, seconds before he struck her.
“Everything that happens in this garage is filmed and recorded, Pritchard, and if you hit me again, this time I won’t hesitate to press charges.”
His fist bunched tighter and Kinga held her breath, knowing he was fighting for control, but after a minute, maybe more, his hand relaxed.
“Leave me, and the Garwoods, alone, Mick.”
“I stopped listening to you the moment I realized it was your fault Jas died,” Mick coldly informed her.
There was no point in arguing. It was, after all, the truth.
Knowing she was either going to cry or collapse, Kinga abruptly turned and yanked open the door to her car, sliding into her seat and immediately locking her doors. She hit the start button, slapped the car into Reverse and watched Mick in her rearview mirror as she sped out of the garage.
A half hour later, exhausted and emotional, Kinga pulled her car into one of the three parking spaces outside her home and cursed the weather. She’d yet again left her umbrella at work. Hard raindrops, containing flecks of snow, hit her windshield. She considered the distance between her car and the front door and wondered whether she had the energy to make it to her door.
She was that tired.
She’d fought off a panic attack since leaving the parking garage, and now that she was finally home, she could feel its cold fingers dancing up her throat, squeezing. She knew she was safe, that Mick wouldn’t hurt her again but, despite a decade passing, she could still hear the awful sound of his hand connecting with her cheekbone, see the fury on his face. The spittle in the corner of his mouth, the anger in his eyes...
“You stupid bitch! You let her die. She was my everything! I had plans, dammit!”
Kinga leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, her heart rate inching upward. Lifting her hand, her fingers bounced up and down and her throat tightened. It was after eight and she didn’t need to experience a panic attack in her car on one of the coldest evenings of the year.
Her first goal was to get inside, but her front door was a hundred miles away. She was short of breath and incapable of movement. Getting there seemed an impossible task. She knew she had to move, but the feeling of impending doom, of sheer terror, wouldn’t allow her to open the door or climb out of her car.
Kinga turned her head and looked at her cell phone lying on the passenger seat next to her. She brushed her finger over the screen and saw that her last call was to O’Hare fifteen minutes ago... She’d asked something about the press conference they’d scheduled for tomorrow to formally announce his comeback but couldn’t remember what.
Her memory was always spotty when she felt like she was dying. But she did know Tinsley and their best friend, Jules, were out of town and her parents would take more than a half hour to reach her.
She needed someone right now and, somehow and strangely, it felt right for her to call Griff.
He answered almost immediately. “Will you please stop fussing, princess? I’ve done a million press conferences before.”
Kinga swallowed, tried to speak and swallowed again.