“You are,” I confirmed. It was the first crack in her tabloid princess persona, and I was going to break the rest of it apart and pull out whatever was hiding underneath.
“What should I do?”
“Get a job. Do something meaningful with your life. Contribute. It’s not like you’re a stranger to altruism,” I gritted out. “You care. Put your good intentions to use.”
“I always thought work was a means to an end. A way to pay for the pleasures of life.”
She looked mesmerized by the idea that doing something with herself was an option, rather than a bad joke.
“Why do you think people who retire deteriorate fast? Humans need to be on the move. Fight or die.”
“But I feel like everyone would love to see me fail.” She bit at her lower lip.
“Prove them wrong.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then die trying.”
“What’s the point of trying if you fail?”
I smiled grimly. “You look at yourself in the mirror differently. Have you given any thought to what you want to do with your life?”
She inclined her head. No surprises there. To me, the answer was obvious. But she had to realize it herself. It was no good if I handed her the idea. It had to come from her. And, she deserved to choose that for herself, at least. Not like she’d had much say over the rest of her life, not with the family she’d been born into.
“Better come up with something.” I drummed the steering wheel. “It’s part of our process.”
“Okay.” She rolled her shoulders back, sitting straight. “Do you think I’m a decent person?”
We were still on that subject? Jesus.
“I think it doesn’t matter,” I said, and when she opened her mouth to speak again, added, “This conversation is over, Brat.”
The way dinner had gone, I was pleasantly surprised by Brat’s resilience. Her loyalty. She had every reason to write these people off, but she still kept it civilized.
“This is an informal supper. Please, feel at home,” Julianne Thorne urged, snug in her Alexander McQueen red satin jacket.
We followed the Thornes across the foyer, with Brat staring down at her feet, looking much younger than her twenty-one years.
“Good to see you again, Sugar Pie.” Anthony eyed his daughter. He glossed-over the fact his daughter ran away from their house yesterday without so much as a goodbye.
Hallie, stiff and uninterested, sported the facial expression of a prisoner of war. “The pleasure is all mine,” Hallie deadpanned.
“We were so shocked when you left without saying a word,” Julianne whined to her daughter.
“Oh, yeah? I was shocked you thought I’d stay after our conversation in Dad’s office.”
The girl had an admirable amount of fight in her.
We sat down at the “informal” table in the kitchen, not the fancy one in the dining room, while three chefs in absurd white hats produced sweet potato and buttermilk pies from an AGA. Accompanied by chicken fried steak, a hearty stew, and sweet tea.
Very casual, you see.
“So. Ransom.” Julianne kept patting the corners of her mouth with a napkin, even though she didn’t consume any food. “Please tell us all about your company. We’re eager to get to know you.”
I provided them minimal information about Lockwood and Whitfield Protection Group, occasionally glancing at Brat, who seemed to have shrunk into herself until she was the size of a toddler.
I told myself it was not my monkey, not my circus. But it took them forty minutes to remember she was there while they grilled me about my life, my upbringing, my career, and my business partner.