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What could I have done differently? Begged him not to go to Austin? Forced him to tell me what he was up to?
He wouldn’t have told me.
Why did he go?
Who did he see?
And how the hell did he end up in that warehouse?
The sharp sting of regret pricks at my eyes as the tears form.
But I can’t cry. Crying won’t do Falcon any good. It won’t do me any good.
I could call Vinnie, but I don’t even know if he has a cell phone. I don’t have his number.
But there’s one number I do have.
My father’s.
I push it into my phone, even as my body trembles. He killed Miles, and he didn’t do it to save Falcon, although that was the result.
No.
He did it for me.
And I should thank him.
Of course he doesn’t answer.
“This is Vincent Gallo. Please leave a message.”
Short and succinct. What to say? I know better than to mention anything that happened. Every phone call is recorded by my father’s staff, and I will not incriminate myself or Falcon.
Not that either of us has done anything wrong, but I don’t trust my father anymore.
God, it’s a knife in my heart to acknowledge that, but it’s true.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say. “It’s Savannah. I’m with Falcon at the hospital. He’s got a punctured lung and he’s on oxygen, but the doctor is optimistic. Please call me.”
I don’t labor under any delusion that he’ll actually return my call. He’s no doubt in a meeting with Grandpa and Vinnie. Possibly even McAllister, for I already know my father won’t be charged in Miles’s death.
That’s the way of these things.
It’s just business.
I sigh.
Falcon lies on the bed, his eyes still closed, the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.
I sit down in the recliner next to his bed and hold his hand. It’s cold. So cold.
Everything is cold.
I grab my phone once more.
This time I call my mother.
And she answers.
