through financial paperwork. And I know Nestor, a deeply Catholic man; if I make him swear on the Bible that he won’t tell anyone, he would keep his lips zipped under pain of castration. Or being forced to watch home decorating shows with Clarita. I’m not sure which method of torture would alarm him more.
A short time later, with Nestor sitting at the kitchen table as I nervously hover nearby, the truth has been confirmed.
Blake’s father and uncle took out huge loans and diverted funds for well over a decade before the financial scandal came to light.
With a heavy heart, I send Blake a text. This can’t wait anymore.
We need to talk.
I get a quick, jokey reply back, with a smirk-face icon. Of course Blake has a smirk-face icon in his arsenal.
Sounds ominous.
I reply.
It has nothing to do with you and me, but it can’t wait. Can I come over tonight?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Blake
Winona is clutching a plastic bag to her chest when I greet her at the front door, and wearing the face of a condemned woman on her way to the gallows.
“Let’s go to the living room,” she says, with a nervous smile that vanishes immediately.
“Are you all right?” I ask uneasily.
She answers with a shrug. Her face is pale, and she moves stiffly as she walks by my side, staring at the floor like she can’t bear to look me in the eye. Her text said there was no problem with the two of us. I don’t think she’d lie about that. What else could have her looking so upset?
Could she be pregnant?
I turn that thought over in my head. Not a terrible thing. Actually…not a bad thought at all. But I don’t think she’d look so miserable.
Maybe she’s upset that I asked her to clean out my father’s office? I didn’t mean to make her feel like I’m using her as a janitorial service. But no, Winona seemed to understand. And if she’d been mad about it, she’d have told me. When I do something to aggravate her, she is not shy about letting me know.
She’s so distracted that when she sinks into the chair facing the sofa, she doesn’t even comment on the fact that I’ve brought Xena into the house. Xena’s curled up on the sofa, chewing a bully stick, and I sit down next to her and scratch her behind the right ear.
Whatever’s troubling Winona, I think I can distract her.
“I have something I need to tell you,” I say.
She winces. “Can I go first? My thing is pretty big.”
“So’s mine.” I wink at her. “I mean, I know they say size doesn’t matter, but…”
She doesn’t even crack a smile.
I clear my throat, worried. “Let me just tell you this and get it out of the way, because it’s something that’s been weighing on me.” I lean down and stroke Xena’s head, and Xena lets out a low groan of pleasure. Her tail thumps wildly. “It’s your bookmark list, Winona. I check off almost every box, and I wanted you to know that. You want a guy who loves dogs. I do love dogs. I always have. I’ve wanted one my whole life.”
She furrows her forehead, looking puzzled. “Then why did you always act so weird around Xena? Well, up until this very minute, anyway. You won’t even look at dogs.”
“This goes back to when I was a kid. I begged my parents for one from as early as I can remember, and they always shot me down. Right before my father died, the last conversation we had, I started bugging him about a dog again. He was under a huge amount of stress, and he bit my head off. Really let me have it. He started yelling at me that I was selfish, that I didn't appreciate anything he did for me.”
I suck in a breath, and it burns like I’m breathing in fire. “He and my mother had a dinner engagement that night. My mother came storming out, said his yelling was giving her a migraine. They were arguing as they left the house. They were distracted, because of me, and they crashed into a tree about ten minutes after they left.”
I started this conversation on a light-hearted note, but now I’ve dredged up memories that I wish I never had to face again. The guilt. The self-loathing. The “what if’s” that I’ve tortured myself with for twenty years.
My throat closes with sorrow. I look down at the ground. "I've always blamed myself