I should give you a heads-up in case you see a stranger coming out of my front door.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. A silence fell between them, and he realized he was probably supposed to say more.
“Her name’s Victoria,” Owen went on, “and she’s some big divorce lawyer or something. I haven’t met her, but from what I hear she just bought a condo in River North and needed a place to live until the sale closes at the end of August. Apparently, she was really eager to get out of her current home. Not sure what the story is there.”
This was all interesting information, and Ford knew that Owen was just trying to be friendly. But these last few days of making polite conversation were starting to wear on him. “Thanks for letting me know.” He gestured to the door that led inside the condo building. “Unfortunately, there’s some stuff I need to take care of . . .”
“Oh! Of course,” Owen said quickly. “Don’t let me keep you.”
After promising to stay in touch, and assuring Owen that he would let him know if he needed anything—only the hundred-and-thirtieth time he’d made that pledge this week—Ford escaped and got into the elevator.
He exhaled as the elevator began to rise toward the fourth floor, and prayed that he wouldn’t bump into any other neighbors—past, current, or future—before he got to his loft.
He got lucky.
His hallway was empty. He walked quietly to unit 4F, the loft all the way at the end. Key already in hand, he unlocked the door and let himself in.
In his bedroom, he yanked off the tie and black suit jacket he’d worn for the funeral. Pacing in his bedroom, he thought about these past few days and felt a stab of emotion.
This was not how things between him and his father were supposed to end.
Granted, their relationship had been complicated for a long time. But he’d always held on to a small hope that something would happen to bridge the chasm between them. Rehab would work one of these times, or there would be some sort of health scare—nothing too serious—that would inspire his dad to give up drinking for good.
Obviously, that had been wishful thinking.
The last time he’d seen his father had been two weeks ago, at his cousin’s college graduation party. There’d been plenty of beer at the party, of which his father had consumed too much, and Ford had kept his distance, not wanting to deal with one of his dad’s moods on what was supposed to be a happy occasion.
He couldn’t remember what he and his dad had talked about that day. Certainly nothing of significance, none of the things Ford would’ve said if he’d known then that his mother would call ten days later, crying, to tell him that his father had dropped dead in the kitchen after suffering a massive heart attack while she was out grocery shopping. There’d been no warning. The doctors said there was nothing anyone could have done; his father’s heart muscles had been significantly weakened, likely the result of years of excessive drinking.
So many things left unsaid. And now . . . that could never change.
Fuck.
All of the emotion Ford had been holding back suddenly boiled over. Without thinking, he grabbed the glass-and-cast-iron candle holder on his dresser and whipped it at the wall opposite him.
Seeing the glass smash into pieces was oddly cathartic.
There was, however, one small problem. Apparently, the iron candle holder had been a little heavier than he’d thought. At least, judging from the eight-inch hole he’d just put in his bedroom wall.
He surveyed the damage.
Well. At least this was one problem he could actually fix.
Two
BRIGHT AND EARLY the following Thursday morning, Victoria walked into the lobby of her downtown office building. She took an elevator up to the thirty-third floor, which her firm shared with two other tenants, a small consulting group and an engineering firm.
Back when she’d been looking for a place to hang her shingle, she’d been attracted to this particular office space because of its clean, modern lines, and great use of natural light. The bright, open feel of the place was reassuring to her clients, who were going through a difficult time in their lives. You’re going to be okay after this divorce. Victoria Slade & Associates will make sure of it, said the sunlit, sophisticated décor.
After unlocking the fogged glass doors that bore her firm’s name, she turned on the lights to the reception area. She liked being