I’m the only one drinking, but I need something to numb the ache that’s been tearing my chest in two since Alex left hours ago. Unfortunately, I don’t see wine filling my requirements. A hard liquor that makes me forget everything a good six hours before I started drinking is the cure I need, not a bunch of files Ayden compiled on Isaac, nor the whispered promises from my mom that everything will work out in the long run. I need to forget—permanently.
My dad clearly learned a few lessons from his daughters when his eyes roll skyward at my grumbled comment. “Whatever the club was, the man youbelievedIsaac was referencingisn’tthe agent he’s been making payments to.” He lowers his tone, which in turn, eases the twisting of my stomach. “Alex wasn’t the only agent shot that day, Regan. Another man was wounded—badly.”
Saving me from realizing just how stupid I am, Ayden jumps into the conversation. “The oversight is understandable. Even from an agent’s standpoint, to this very day, the details on the second agent’s injuries are sketchy. Add that to the fact there are no reports of a second shooter noted inanyfiles; it is as if the sniper on the rockface and the second agent never existed.”
The fog in my head clears for anger. “They were both there, Ayden. If it weren’t for Isaac, Alex and his colleague would be dead.”
“Because Isaac ordered for the sniper to be killed?”
My teeth grit when it dawns on me the man sitting across from me is no longer my brother. He’s an agent. If the way he is sitting all pompous and straight isn’t a clear indication, the interrogation in his tone is a sure-fire sign.
“Isaac didn’t order for anybody to be killed. Hesavedtwo agents’ lives. How can you not see that?”
When I attempt to stand to my feet, my dad’s hand darts out to hold me hostage on the couch. Red wine splashes onto my thighs, but not a soul notices it. Every pair of eyes in the room are too fixated on my flaming-with-anger face to take in a few extra splotches of red.
“Running doesn’t solve anything.” My dad’s tone is lower, filled with understanding.
I don’t take a leaf out of his book. “It does when the people who are supposed to believe you don’t. Despite what Ayden or any of his colleagues tell you, Isaac is innocent. He’s a good man, Dad.” I shake my head as my anger builds to the point of detonation. “Perhaps if you stopped siding with ill-informed men on what theybelievemakes a criminal, and listen to the person you raised to seek the truth, you’d know that.”
Proof he heard the underlying message in my reply is exposed when he advises, “I let Alex see you today because I thought it would do you some good.”
I laugh. It isn’t pleasant. “What good could it do me? He lied to me, Dad. He broke both my trust and my heart, yet you thought seeing him would be good for me? What’s wrong with you?”
He takes in a sharp breath at the broken heart part of my statement, but his fighting spirit remains strong. “If you had just given him a chance to speak—”
“Are you serious?! You’re taking his side?” I push away from him, equally angered and disgusted. “I’m your daughter, for crying out loud. You’re not allowed to have his back.”
He scoots closer to me to calm me down with his giant teddy bear hands and gentle eyes. “That isn’t it at all, baby girl. There are no sides here. I don’t pick teams. You are my daughter, so I’ll always have your back—”
“Then tell her the truth, Hayden.”
My eyes rocket to the entrance of the living room. My mom has her shoulder propped against the doorjamb. Her cheeks are wet with moisture, but her eyes are bright and brimming with determination. When my dad vehemently shakes his head at her suggestion, she pushes off her feet to bridge the gap between them.
“She has the right to know.”
My dad shakes his head again, denying her advice with the stubbornness of a mule. It is nothing new for them. They bicker as much as Alex and I once did. But they love even more than that.
My heart does an elongated beat when my mom cups my dad’s jaw in her hands, lifting his eyes to hers. He’s a goner now. She’s got him right where she wants him. “When she finds out, and don’t mistake me, shewillfind out, you’ll lose her even faster than you’re worried about.”
Although I hate that my mom is talking about me as if I’m not here, the raw pragmatism in her voice cuts through me like a knife. Everything she is saying is straight-up honest, and my dad knows it.
“I like having her here, Sally. Home—where she belongs. I don’t want it to go back to how it was months ago. We hardly saw her. She was practically a ghost.”
That hurts to hear, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “Things are different now, Dad. I’ve healed so much, my grief is basically gone.”
I shock myself with how confident my tone is. I shouldn’t be surprised. Ihavegrown so much the past few months, I truly feel like I’ve crossed a stage in my grief where I can understand what happened between Luca and me that night without letting guilt eat me alive.
This kills me to admit, but a lot of my newfound knowledge was gathered during my time with Alex. He deceived and used me, but not everything he did was bad. Even if it was all an act, he showed me the woman I could be if I tried harder. That’s exactly what I’ve done the past few months. I concentrated on me: on my healing, on my relationship with my parents, and on the hurt woman inside of me responsible for the ugly way I reacted to Alex’s betrayal.
Two wrongs will never make a right, so I don’t know why I believed two betrayals would make us even. I had planned to tell Alex the truth about what really happened that afternoon in my apartment when I saw him again, but with anger, hurt, and frustration fueling our exchange today, I never got the chance.
In a way, it was both good and bad that my dad and Weston broke up our argument. Good, because Alex left the ranch breathing, but bad because if we were given a chance to air our dirty laundry, he wouldn’t have left believing I had both cheated on him and aborted his baby. Although it would do little to ease my agitation, I’m sure it would have helped Alex. Then maybe, just maybe, guilt wouldn’t still be eating me alive hours after he left.
Recalling the conversation I was in the process of having before my thoughts strayed, I say, “I love the little cabin you built me in the meadow, Dad, but I’m twenty-seven years old. You can’t keep me locked in a tower forever.”
I bump my knee against his, hoping to ease the tension hanging thickly in the air. It works—somewhat. He only grumbles his comment about finding a bigger padlock instead of saying it out loud. It’s not the response I was aiming for, but it’s better than him continuing with his stubbornness.
“Now what’s this secret you’re keeping from me? If it is about my recent online shopping delivery going missing, don’t bother. Mom already told me you ‘borrowed’ them.”
