usual walking middle finger state of mind, at least.
But he still doesn’t trust me to help, and it sucks.
Fine, dude. Be that way.
My phone pings again. One more thing. Don’t mention the box to Grandma or Nick. I haven’t decided if I’ll tell them about it or not, but if I do, it needs to come from me.
With every stab of my fingers at the tiny letters, I feel something raw in the back of my throat.
Fair enough. But why would your dad do this? I can’t see how this helps anyone.
Another immediate response. He wants something. He always wants something, but I’ll handle it. This is what I do.
I put my phone down and look at Brina with this dull recognition glazing me over.
“I just remembered, at the art museum, it was the boat. The curator pulled out a replica of this fancy yacht Beatrice designed. That’s when he really freaked, and I get it now. It’s the same ship.”
“Oof. Is that why you texted him?”
I nod. “I just don’t get it. What’s his father after? It was forever ago and there are still so many nasty stories about it. Bring it up now, and it’ll be back in the news. Beatrice is recovering from a major heart issue. It’s like he wants to kill his own mother.”
Brina blinks. “I mean, people say—okay, I say—my mom is crazy. But she’s crazy in a different way.”
I smile because it’s impossible not to love Brina’s mom.
“A fun, silly, crazy way. She’d never lob a grenade like this. This is straight-up book villain shit. Your mom would kill off anyone in a book who pulled this crap.”
Brina laughs. “You know her too well. Does Ward have any guesses what put his dad up to this?”
“Victor wants something, he says, but I have no idea what that could be. His mother and sons are billionaires. It seems like if he wanted something, he could just ask.”
But he didn’t. So, is the boat supposed to be blackmail?
“Don’t mention this to anyone, Brina. Ward isn’t even sure if he’ll tell Nick and Beatrice.”
“Hey, I signed the NDA, remember?” Brina winks.
“Right.” I sink back into the couch, twirling my hair. “What kind of father does this to his kids?”
“The kind who doesn’t deserve children.”
“You’re always right,” I say. We share a worried look. “You know, before today, I would’ve killed to know what makes him such a Wardhole...”
“But now?” Brina asks impatiently.
“Now, I just want to hug him.” My voice strains as I continue. “And I want him to hug me, and take away this sinking feeling that it’s about to get really, really messed up.”
16
The Big Moment (Ward)
As soon as Paige was safe at Sweeter Grind, I texted a private investigator I’ve used before and had Reese drop me at my building.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t have time for this shit, but it might be Paige again.
Nope, my PI. Damn, this guy works fast. Never mind the fact that I was wishing it was her.
He’s staying at the Express Inn near the airport, the investigator says.
That doesn’t sound right. My dad isn’t the type to settle for a place so normal—not to mention affordable.
He cares way more about his creature comforts than Nick or I ever have.
Are you sure? I send back.
The next message is an image of my father lounging on a bed in a room with stained carpet and knicks in the wall.
Fuck. He’s really staying at the Express.
So that’s a clue. He’s blown his wad again, and he’s looking for a payout to keep him in imported cigars and breezy beach rentals in the Keys.
I put a checkbook in my pocket and head for the parking garage, taking a deep breath that burns my lungs.
Now that I know what his money-grubbing ass wants, I’m less concerned.
I park the Tesla and fire off another text. What’s the room number?
Room 413. Top floor on the right side of the building, sir.
In seconds, I’m pounding up the stairs and beating his door down.
He answers in a yellowing undershirt and slacks. My nose wrinkles before I even smell the cheap booze wafting off him.
“Hey, Ward. Come on i—” He sounds like someone who expected to see me.
“How much?” I snap.
“What?”
“How fucking much will it take to get you out of my life for good? Gone from all our lives.” I sound like a meat grinder, every word flung with visceral hatred.
He clucks his tongue and levels a lazy, assessing look at me.