Page 18 of Shattered

“So he thinks I can’t handle this alone?”

“I think no one should have to handle this alone.”

“I’ve been handling things alone for years.” Her voice sharpened. “When Dad died. When Mom got diagnosed. I’m excellent at handling things alone. I don’t need Axel Irving swooping in on his white horse because Daniel, the golden boy, asked him to.”

The speech landed between us, sharp and defensive. I set down my coffee.

“I’ll go. I’m sorry for intruding.”

I made it to the door before she said, “Wait.”

I turned. She looked torn between remorse and frustration.

“I didn’t mean to be an asshole. I’m tired and everything is terrible and I’m taking it out on you when you’re just trying to help.” She paused. “Do you want to stay for a while? Make the trip to Brooklyn worth it at least?”

I probably should have left—maintained the distance I’d spent years building.

Instead I said, “Okay,” and sat back down.

We drank coffee in silence that wasn’t quite comfortable but wasn’t entirely awkward either. Delia sat on her couch with her injured ankle propped up, looking small and tired and nothing like the bright ten-year-old who’d refused to let me hide.

“How’s the museum business?” she asked finally.

“Profitable. Boring.”

“That’s the saddest description of a career I’ve ever heard.”

“It pays well.”

“So does being a hitman, probably. Doesn’t make it fulfilling.” She studied me over her coffee cup. “Do you even like what you do?”

The question caught me off guard. “It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m good at it.”

“Still not what I asked.”

I looked at her, she was watching me with those sharp hazel eyes waiting for a real answer.

“I built something that solved a problem I cared about,” I said carefully. “It turned into a company. The company grew. Now I run the company and solve problems I’m less interested in. Yes, I’m happy with my work.”

“Must be great being you.”

“When did you become so pushy?”

“I’ve always been pushy. You just avoided me successfully for five years and I never knew why.”

The comment should have been playful. Instead it landed with unexpected weight.

Before I could figure out how to respond, she shifted, winced as her ankle moved wrong. I noticed she’d been sitting in the same position the entire time, probably because moving hurt.

“When did you last take pain medication?” I asked.

“This morning. Maybe.”

“That’s not a real answer.”