“No. That’s from your dad, for you.”
“You don’t have to push him so hard for me, you know,” she mumbles.
I shake my head. “I’m not. He gave this to me and asked that I care for you while he couldn’t.”
“With everything going on he was thinking about me?” she whispers.
“Of course he was.” I wonder once more about her mother. “Did that not happen back home?”
“I’m the oldest. I usually take care of my little brothers,” she admits. “Running a dealership eats up a lot of Mark’s time. Mom is on a lot of committees, and the boys have a ton of activities.” She rolls her eyes.
“Do you like taking care of them?” I ask as she keys in the number for chips.
She shrugs. “I guess someone has to. If they weren’t such entitled little pricks it would be more fun. The boys can’t help how they are. Mark and my mother did that. Colton and Trace are just little boys who’ve been given too much and never heard the word no.”
“How old are they?” I choose my favorite candy-coated chocolates for comfort, playing it nonchalant.
“Six and seven.”
I continue to ask her questions as we walk back to the others with our loot in hand. Penny has a lot to answer for, and this time I’m certain Preacher won’t be backing down.
* * *
Forty-eight hours later, Preacher is looking more like himself. Slightly pale and antsy to be out of the hospital, he’s entering his exit window. Concerned about his reaction to the transfusion and the liver repair, they’d held on to him for precautionary observations.
“You don’t need to stay here with me,” Preacher grumbles forty-eight hours later as we play a game of Uno at the table across from his bedside.
“We are, old man, now hush up,” Alexandria says, making me laugh.
Speechless, he blinks at her.
“We’ve been buzzing around this place for days and you’re finally aware of us, so let us enjoy it.”
“I guess I’ve been told.” His lips curve into a smile.
“You have. Now draw two cards.” She slaps her card down.
“Where is Edmund Goodwin’s room?” a shrill, nasally voice travels down the hallway.
“No,” Alexandria whispers, horrified.
“Hide,” Preacher demands.
Scrambling up, she rushes into the bathroom and my stomach plummets. This must be Penny. The door to the room swings open, slamming into the wall, and I see the bitch herself, dressed like a Stepford wife in a tea-length, red rose patterned, white summer dress with red kitten heels. Her light blonde hair is bone straight and cut in layers that tumble down around her shoulders, framing a delicate, heart-shaped face. A red belt cinches at the waist, accenting her tiny waist.
“How the hell did you find me?” Preacher asks. His eyes burn with anger, and his lips are drawn into a straight line.
“I followed the violence and there you and your gang of criminals were. You’ve grown, I suppose, because you’re making the news now.” Her full, botoxed lip curls up into a vicious sneer. “Where the hell is my daughter?”
“Shouldn’t you know?” He lifts a thick brow.
“Cut the bullshit!”
“Funny how you come to my bedside, disturbing my rest in the hospital, to ask me about our child.”
“Don’t pretend to care—”
“You don’t get to fucking do that, Penny,” he barks, and she flinches. “I’ve wanted to be there for every minute of her life. It was you who kept me away.”