A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,49

with the truisms he was spouting. I did not want to leave this meeting more confused than when I came in.

“Whatever,” I said rudely. It was a little difficult to be rude on purpose, but I was seriously annoyed. “I believe that you know exactly why Clarissa is after me.”

“You have proof?” he asked.

“Nope, but I did just earn another question,” I shot back. “I have three now.”

John Travolta arched a brow in surprise. “I’m not on my game this fine morning. So be it. Ask your questions.”

“Why is the Angel of Mercy out to destroy me?”

“She’s not out to get you,” he replied. “Two more questions.”

“Were you born an asshole and a liar or did living forever make you that way?” I shouted.

“That was two,” John Travolta said. “I’m not lying. As to being an asshole, it would depend on with whom you’re speaking.”

Shit. I’d wasted another question and got a lie in return. Fine. There was no cryptic way around the next question.

“If it’s not me, then who is she after?” I hissed, wanting to headbutt the Archangel.

He eyed me for a long moment. Again, I held his stare.

He was the first to look away.

“Answer me. You made the rules. Play by them,” I ground out.

“The Angel of Mercy’s ire is directed at Alana. It has been Alana the entire time.”

“Repeat yourself,” I demanded. “Now.”

“Clarissa wants to destroy your mother—not you.”

I came as close to an out-of-body experience as I’d ever had. The ringing in my ears was high-pitched and made me grind my teeth. My hatred for the man who was a lying sack of shit grew to a proportion I was unable to control.

My instincts took over and it wasn’t pretty. In the moment, I felt no shame. I had no clue how I would feel later, but I didn’t give a damn.

There was no shade of gray lurking around the corner.

This was a black-and-white situation. The lies had to end.

“Liar!” I screamed, diving across the desk with the intention of rearranging John Travolta’s face.

Gideon burst into the room just as I got one solid, bone-cracking punch in. I felt the sensation reverberate all the way up my arm into my shoulder when my fist connected to his face. My father’s head jerked back, but he didn’t lift a finger to defend himself.

If I wasn’t crazy—and that was entirely up for debate, considering I’d just delivered a powerful left hook to the face of an Archangel—I would have said he looked relieved that I’d punched him. Unfortunately, Gideon pulled me off of the Angel before I could test the theory.

My behavior horrified me, but I wasn’t ready or able to stop.

“No, Daisy,” Gideon said as he held my live-wire body tight against his chest. “What the fuck did you say to her?”

My father gingerly touched his nose, which was broken if the gushing blood was anything to go by. I knew I could slip from Gideon’s embrace easily, but it was a good idea to stay put right now. My rage was still at a boiling point and my fists wouldn’t unclench.

“The truth,” John Travolta said, tonelessly. “I told Daisy the truth.”

“Bullshit,” I hissed. “My mother is in the darkness. You know that as well as I do. Why Clarissa would be after a dead woman living in Hell is beyond me. It’s the stupidest excuse to protect the Angel of Mercy I’ve heard yet. You disgust me!”

My father’s expression deserved an Academy Award. His confusion at my statement was so truthful and honest, I laughed. He was one hell of an actor.

“Alana is not in the darkness,” he said, shaking his head.

“Again, I call bullshit,” I snapped. “What is wrong with you? She committed suicide. That’s a guaranteed trip to Hell, from what I understand.”

Gideon’s hold loosened, and he turned me around in his arms so we were face to face.

“Daisy, your mother is not in the darkness,” he said.

This could not be happening. Was it Lie to Daisy Day?

Twisting out of Gideon’s grasp, I heard a grunt of surprise from John Travolta. I was sure letting him know my strength wasn’t in my best interest, but he should have gotten a clue when I’d broken his nose so easily.

My own violent streak shocked me, but to be told something I knew as truth was a lie—something as serious as my mother’s death and afterlife—short-wired my tenuous grip on sanity.

Pacing the office and wanting to peel the skin off my body, I did breathing exercises.