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“Did you find it?”
“No, but I found this.” He crosses the room as I set the open album on the surface in front of the display.
Frowning, I scan the page he hands me. “Okay, I know my freshman year is spotty with all the frat partying we did, but damaged brain cells aside, I’m pretty sure you didn’t go to Stanford.”
Sure enough, the college’s official logo is stamped at the top, and below that, my name is printed in the same thick ink of the declination letter Dad hand-delivered to me three weeks after I’d applied. It’s an exact replica in all ways except the one that matters most.
“Where did you find this?” I ask, because I can’t comprehend what I’m staring at.
“In that filing cabinet over there, mixed in with a bunch of dated documents from the University of Michigan.”
My blood runs cold. “This is an acceptance letter…”
Dec and I lock gazes at the same moment, realization dawning—and because fate’s a funny bitch, another punishing round of waves pitches the boat into the side of the slip.
There’s a loud pop before the case we’d been searching for smacks the back of my head and rolls to the other side of the cabin.
I rub the throbbing spot, glancing up at the hollowed hiding place it fell from above the grand display while Declan makes a break for it. As soon as he gets his hands on it, he removes the lid and slides a loosely rolled tube of paper out onto the desk.
“I fucking knew it,” he mutters, but I’m still reeling over the acceptance letter I never received.
It can’t be true. He wouldn’t—I can’t even force the lie when he’s kept the fucking thing like some sort of memento.
I told Penelope he wouldn’t have blocked our messages because I didn’t believe the same man who was holding and laughing with me in those pictures was capable of something so awful. But he didn’t even deny it when I confronted him, did he? So why wouldn’t he use this letter as a means to control me as well?
Anguish rips through me so swiftly I’m forced to close my eyes. My scars flare to life, mocking me by burning beneath my collar, even though I know all that’s left is dead nerves.
Twelve. Years. Ripped away from us, and there’s no way to get them back. There’s no button to push to take me back in time to experience all the aches, pains, and joys we should have had together.
We would have had a house and kids by now. Forcefully dizzy, I lean against the desk for support as that visual bolts through me.
I would be a dad.
My stomach clenches tightly, making me nauseous. I could never… I would never do something like this to my child.
Thoughts are firing so fast, my body can’t keep up.
I experience every emotion at once. Anger. Betrayal. Grief. Sorrow.
They assault me rapidly until I’m forced to face the truth that my father robbed us of that time.
“Oh fuck,” Declan says, eyes darting to mine from the desk, where he’s laid out a map of Topica Bay.
White flags are scattered across the island, denoting areas where he’s already developed properties, with Butterfly Cove being the newest. But anxiety floods my system when I follow a trail of red flags along the various coasts, all the way up to the harbor.
Taped in the corner of the map is an illustration for a massive resort with the words Anchorage Harbor written in bold black marker.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur.
He’s dividing and conquering like a modern day Genghis Khan, and the faint amount of relief in Augustine being unmarked utterly dissipates with all the buildings I find flagged to be bought on Seaside Avenue.
“He’s not going to stop,” I say. “He sees Seaside as an investment opportunity–a way to make even more money–and he’ll turn the entire strip into a playground for the wealthy. He doesn’t give a shit about the community or the people who live and work here.”
The faint scent of cigarette smoke wafts from the map, stinging my nose, and tripling the anxiety I’d felt moments ago.
I’ve solved one problem by giving Ricardo the money he needs, but even if I hadn’t drained several major accounts, I wouldn’t have enough to compete with the millions my father has at his disposal, and at this point, if I don’t have Penelope, does it really even matter?
“I have to warn her,” I say, but my collar’s closing around my neck like a noose and constricting the air flow to my aching lungs.
