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“I love you,” I mumble softly.
Turning her face up toward me, she gives me a gentle smile, and I lean in to press my lips to hers.
My phone begins to buzz again. Before Briar can turn to see the name on the screen, I quickly flip it over, hitting decline again.
Worrying about my father is the last thing she needs right now. She has enough on her plate, but I see the way she glances skeptically at the phone, wondering who it could have been that I so quickly declined.
“Just work,” I mutter to cover it up.
“Don’t work too hard,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“I might be taking on another case,” I stammer.
Her arms fall to her sides. “Are you sure about that? It seems like you’ve been working a lot lately.”
“I’m sure,” I reply with a hint of defensiveness.
Even though I’m trying to protect her from stressing or worrying, it’s almost like she just stresses and worries twice as much.
As I take the last sip of coffee in my cup, I watch the window behind Briar to see Dean jumping headfirst into our pool. He emerges a moment later, swimming laps to the other side.
The thought of leaving Briar and Abigail here with him has me feeling a little unsettled.
“What are your plans today?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably take Abigail to the library for story time. Maybe go out to lunch. Nothing exciting.”
“Good,” I reply nonchalantly. Secretly, I’m pleased to hear that they’ll be out of the house for most of the day, but I don’t tell her that part.
“Just be careful,” I say.
She gives me a knowing smirk as she tilts her head to the side. “Yes, of course, dear. We’ll be fine.”
I press my lips to her forehead again. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replies as I grab my keys from the entryway table.
I’m not even in my car by the time my father calls again. My phone is buzzing on the center console. I know the longer I avoid him, the worse it’s going to get.
“Hello, Dad,” I say in a disgruntled tone after hitting the answer button.
My father’s deep voice echoes from the car’s Bluetooth speaker. “What kind of son declines his father’s call?” he says with his thick Texas drawl.
The question is rhetorical, but part of me still wants to reply—the son of a lying, cheating, criminal father, of course. As much as I would love to say that, I don’t.
“It was early. I was in the shower. What do you need?” I reply.
“I’m sure by now you’ve heard of these absolutely ridiculous charges they’re bringing against me.”
“I heard,” I reply shortly.
“Wilford and I think we’ve got a case against the DA for religious discrimination because someone in their office must be some Christian-hating, liberal, biased idiot."
“Then I’m sure Wilfred can defend you in court and get you off on those charges.”
“I ain’t letting these goddamn charges even come to court, son. You must be out of your mind.”
He sounds so tired, his tone ragged and exhausted.
