“One of what?” I ask, fighting the urge to throttle him across his desk.
“One of the vultures,” he says flatly. “Do you know how many people came forward with worthless tips when we offered a million-dollar reward? Hundreds of unscrupulous conmen came running with bullshit stories that led nowhere. Did you expect me to share every single one with you boys? You were grieving. I had to protect you.”
“I deserved to know,” I growl at him. “She was my twin.”
He shoots to his feet, slamming his glass down on the desk. “She was my daughter,” he shouts. “I followed every dead-end tip as far as it would go, and they all led nowhere. You want to stand here and tell me I didn’t try?”
He’s breathing hard, raging at me across the desk, his own temper meeting mine and dampening my impulsive outburst. Of course he looked. Of course he followed the tip, even though it was some poor asshole from Harper’s side of town who was only after a quick buck. Just because he didn’t share every detail with us doesn’t mean he didn’t fucking try. He’s not the person I’m really pissed at, anyway. As always, that honor goes to my own damn self.
“I know you tried,” I say quietly. I barely remember a thing for the six months surrounding her disappearance. Dad and King took care of everything. I was worthless. Before and after, I was living in some kind of autopilot nightmare. I remember looking, how desperate and immediate everything felt at the time, like every moment was a punch in the gut. Now it’s just a dark blur, a ruined page in the story of my life where the ink runs together and bleeds into all the pages after.
Dad sits down heavily, pulling the cork from his whiskey to pour himself another shot. He grabs a glass from the liquor cart and hands me one, too. “I don’t remember the names of any of them,” he says. “I offered a reward for information that led to her recovery, and none of it did. If it had, I’d have written someone a check for a million dollars, and you can bet your ass I’d remember it.”
“And she’d be here,” I say, sinking onto the edge of the chair next to his desk before downing the shot and reaching for the bottle.
For a rare, peaceful moment, we sit in silence, not blaming each other for tragedies that don’t make sense, that have no ending, no villain, and no winners. When there’s no one to blame, but the weight of it is too great to bear alone, we each find someone to point fingers at.
I remember a fuss when some of the people who had tips didn’t get paid, that a couple of them got together and tried to sue Dad, because that’s the kind of assholes who live in this town. The kind who would sue a father who just lost his daughter because he didn’t hand over money for worthless information and lies. Dad won that one when they dropped the lawsuit, and a lot of people in town rallied behind us because everyone loves a good tragedy, and we had so fucking many.
No one wants to be known as a tragedy, especially a man as proud as Dad. As any of us, really. No one wants their pain on display for the town to walk by and marvel at, offering sympathies while secretly relieved it’s not their life behind the glass. Maybe we’re all just doing the same thing Duke does, creating a chaos around us so great that the true moments of hurt aren’t standing out for all the world to see. Instead, they’re buried in a hundred other tall tales and true stories. If we keep giving them shit to look at, to distract them, they’ll stop quenching their thirst for gossip in the endless well of our pain.
Dad’s the one who breaks the silence. He jerks his head toward the ceiling, gesturing with his eyes. “You enjoying the girl?”
I push back and set my glass down, avoiding his shrewd gaze. “I’d better go check on her before she plants a bug in my light.”
“Just watch what you say around her,” he says. “Everyone’s after something.”
Don’t I fucking know it.