Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

who had gotten their family into this mess.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

She sipped more whiskey. “I don’t know. All I can think about is Jordan. I don’t want him in the middle of this.”

“Is there anywhere you can go? Any family out of town?”

Her fingers fluttered over her puffy face. “My sister lives in Florida.”

“Maybe you should go for a visit.”

“I don’t want to leave Pack.” She slouched against the couch and leaned her head back. I think the whiskey had kicked in.

“Pack should go with you.”

She looked over at me, her swollen eyes slightly glazed. “He has to work. It’s the only money coming in. It doesn’t matter anyway. He won’t go. He still thinks if he scrapes together enough cash, he can win it back.

“I was going to be the first lady of Huntingford. I bet I could have made vice president of the Junior League if I was first lady of Huntingford.” She quietly talked to herself as she stared at the olive green curtains framing the windows.

Sheila had left the building. She couldn’t make a rational decision right now if the president of the Junior League asked her to wrestle in Jello at the next fundraiser.

I patted her leg. “I’m going to go. Call me if you see that man again, okay?”

“I would have worn my new pink silk hat to the mayoral inauguration.”

It took all my willpower, but I waited until I got back to my apartment before I called Sullivan. I didn’t trust my driving while royally pissed skills.

He answered on the first ring. “Yes, Rose?”

“That was cowardly. I don’t know why I expected more from you, but I did.” I paced the small space of my apartment as I talked to him.

“Should I pretend to know what you’re talking about?”

“Sheila, Henry, life insurance policy. Ring a bell?”

There was a long pause. “Sorry, I don’t have a clue.”

“You ass, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I want to make a trade.”

Sullivan sighed. “I hate to repeat myself, but you seem to be a slow learner so I’ll say it one more time. You. Don’t. Have. What. I. Want.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

He chuckled. “Goodbye, Rose—”

“I can get the hard drive.”

There was another one of those long pauses. “How?”

“Will you trade Axton for it?”

“Do you really have the hard drive? It wasn’t in your apartment the first night we met.”

I gripped the phone so tight, my fingers tingled. “You searched my apartment? You are such an asshole.”

“Do you have the hard drive or not?”

It creeped me out to think of Sullivan riffling through my personal shit. The next time I saw him, I was going to punch him right in the face. “Let’s just say I have access to it.”

“What about Packard’s end of the deal?”

“I think you’re the slow learner. He doesn’t have it. Period.”

“Then he’d better get creative and find it. When Packard has what he owes me, then we can trade. But no one screws me over, Rose. No one.” He hung up.

I was scowling at the receiver when I heard a knock on my door. I hung up the phone and pulled the stun gun from my purse. I had even started taking the darn thing into the bathroom with me.

I looked out the peephole and jerked away from with door like I’d been burned. My dad was here.

Chapter 27

I have three standout memories of my father. He taught me how to ride a bike when I was five, clapping as I rode around our driveway by myself for the first time. I remember he hugged me after my role as Wendy in the eighth grade production of Peter Pan, and how proud he looked when I graduated from high school. For the most part though, my father was always working. And even when he was home, he was holed up in his study.

I thought of him as my mom’s backup. Whatever my mom wanted, he enforced. I think because he loved her, but mostly just to make his home life easier. My dad would nod vaguely when she categorized my sins, pointed out my flaws, or lectured me on what a bitter disappointment I was, and why, for the love of God, couldn’t I be more like Jacqueline?

Consequently, I never felt close to my dad. He was a shadow in my life. A ghostly presence that hovered in the corners of my memories. Really just a piece of scenery. And he certainly never visited my apartment once in the five years I lived here. I wasn’t even aware he knew the address.

I tucked the stun gun — or Sparky, as I had started to think of it — back in my purse, tightened my ponytail, and opened the door. “Dad.”

He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “Rosalyn,” he said with a nod.

“Hi.” After a few awkward seconds, I stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.” He stepped inside and looked around. “So, this is your apartment?”

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it. “Yep. This is it.”

He nodded the whole time like a bobble head, his hands shoved into his front pockets. “Well, this is…uh. Dane Harker called and said you’d been vandalized.”

“Someone broke in and stole my computer. Dane likes to exaggerate a bit. Really it was no big deal.”

“It is a big deal. How did they get in?”

“I guess my locks were pretty old. They’ve been replaced.”

“You had renter’s insurance, right?”

“Already got a new computer.” I pointed to the computer Eric loaned me, which sat on the floor next to the futon. Did I feel guilty for misleading my dad? Nope. The last thing I needed was my dad feeling sorry for me. Or worse, thinking I was incapable of taking care of myself and running off to share that news with my mother.

“Good,” he said. He glanced around the room again. “You don’t have a table. Where do you eat?”

I thought about my little bistro table that had been smashed to splinters. “I’ve been meaning to get one. I’ve just been so busy lately.”

“That’s good.” He rocked up on his toes, then back on his heels.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised, like he’d never heard of this so called sitting before. “Thank you.” He hitched up the legs of his pants and folded himself onto the futon. With one hand, he pressed on the mattress. “This isn’t quite a couch, is it? What do you call this?”

“It’s a futon, Dad.”

“Oh, right. Do you sleep on it, too?”

I rubbed my neck. “Yeah, it’s multifunctional.”

“Huh.”

Having exhausted the furniture topic we descended into silence once again.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“It’s after five, so why not?” he said, brightening up. “I’ll take a scotch, single malt if you have it. Neat.”

“I have water.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Oh, okay.”

This was the most painful conversation I’d ever had. I lived in the same house with this man for eighteen