I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat, summoning my patience. She’s right. She’s going to go snooping around no matter what I do. “You can get cleaned up in my bathroom,” I say at last. Maybe she’ll be too busy getting the blood off her face to eavesdrop on my conversation.
She shrugs and climbs out of the car, and I do the same, stepping in front of her to unlock the back door. Thank fuck it’s late enough that the maid isn’t around to hover. I start for the stairs, but just as we reach the bottom, a door opens in the hall behind us.
“I thought I heard a car in the drive,” Dad says, sounding so fucking normal you’d think he wasn’t the worst of all of us.
I turn around and grab the front of Harper’s jacket, pulling it closed over her exposed skin. “Keep that shut,” I mutter to her, but my eyes are on Dad, who’s busy eye-fucking her from behind.
“You’re home early,” Dad says, giving me a knowing look. “Twins still out?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just taking Harper upstairs to get cleaned up.”
I put an arm around Harper, who tenses but turns reluctantly to face my father, holding her jacket closed.
“Ah,” Dad says, coming along the hall to meet us. “So this is the girl you’ve been spending time with.”
“Stay out of my business,” I snap.
He smiles and holds out a hand to Harper, who awkwardly shifts her grip on the front of her jacket from her right hand to her left so she can shake his hand.
“Hi, Mr. Dolce,” she says, and damn if she doesn’t sound nervous. Never thought I’d hear that tone in her voice.
“Tony’s fine,” he says, still holding onto her hand. “That’s some nasty bruise on your face. I hope my son didn’t do that.” He chuckles, like it’s fucking funny, and raises a brow at me, like I need a reminder not to punch a chick in the face.
Harper glances up at me and extracts her hand from his. “No, I just fell.”
Dad drags his gaze over her. “Well, if there’s one person who knows how to take care of a bloody nose, it’s my son,” he says, smiling like he’s some kind of proud papa and not a piece of shit father.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I say.
“You might need stitches for that lip,” Dad says, reaching out like he’s going to touch her face, turn it toward the light to examine the wounds.
I block his hand, pulling Harper halfway behind me. “Keep your hands off her,” I growl.
Dad holds up both hands and laughs. “You kids know where the ice and bandages are,” he says. “I guess you don’t need me to patch you up anymore.”
Anger pulses in my temples, and I grab Harper and drag her up the stairs. All the lightness from the car ride is gone, and I just want to get this over with and get her out of my house.
“Your dad seems nice,” she says, her words measured.
“You’re just his type,” I snarl. “Almost legal.” I pull her along the hall to my bedroom, unlock the door, and pull her in.
“You have a lock on your bedroom door?” she asks. “That’s… Interesting.”
I flick on the bathroom light and pull her inside. “All the other doors have locks, too, so don’t bother trying to snoop. Clean up. You might shower, too. You smell like garbage.”
She rolls her eyes. “Got a T-shirt I can borrow?”
I grab her a school shirt and hand it into the bathroom. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere else, and keep your hands off my shit. I don’t need your greasy fingerprints all over everything.”
I find Dad downstairs in his office, a shot of whiskey in a glass in his hand as if he’s waiting for me. “That one’s a looker,” he says when I walk in.
“Who’s Thomas Hertz?” I ask.
Dad frowns. “Who?”
“Thomas Hertz,” I grit out. “Some asshole who sold a car to two teenagers the night she disappeared. Apparently he came to you with that information, so why the fuck haven’t I heard about it?”
Dad swishes his whiskey around in his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. “Oh,” he says at last, leaning back in his chair. “One of those.”