Page 84 of Playing With Love

I whipped my head in his direction, made big eyes, and warned, “You’re cruising for our first marital fight that will end with you sleeping on Allyson’s couch.”

“First, there will never be a time when either of us sleeps on the couch. Second, I was asking because he left the NSA after his wife died. It’s not a secret, neither is him working at the NSA, but he doesn’t talk about that time. As in, ever. It’s like those years don’t exist. So I was surprised he mentioned it to you.”

Dylan’s wife died?

Oh no.

“No, he didn’t tell me,” I softly confirmed. “And his answer was succinct, just that he worked there straight out of college.”

There was a long stretch of silence as Tucker continued to drive. The deeper we got into the valley the more spread out the houses became. Lots of pastureland, dilapidated barns, farmhouses in various states of disrepair, but no animals that I could see. And there were no crops, just meadowed grassland. Had we not thoroughly mapped out how to get to the compound I would’ve thought Allyson was lost—that’s how deep into nowhere we were.

The silence was broken by my phone ringing. I reached between my feet and dug through my purse, grabbed my cell, and looked at the screen.

“Dylan,” I begrudgingly announced, and answered the call on speaker. “Hey, Dylan.”

“I see you’re almost there so I’ll make this quick. So far, Melanie Stevens is coming up clean. No priors. No run-ins with the law. Filed for divorce fifteen years ago when her husband ran off. The divorce was granted six months later. The ex-husband lives in Florida. Five evictions on his credit. A 2002 Dodge Ram registered in his name. No mortgage. No savings. No property. Taxes filed on time and according to his 1040 filing he makes thirty-six K a year. The guy’s a deadbeat, never paid child support, and from what I could find never went back to Tennessee to see his daughter, Jennifer. The daughter’s clean, too. Lives in Chattanooga, like Sarah told you. She works at a catering company as the head pastry chef. Makes decent money but she’s not rolling in it. Has a car loan she pays on time. Rent is current. No record. Now, Melanie’s not rolling in it either, but a year ago her income significantly increased.”

“How significantly?” I asked.

“Tripled. And that’s her personal income. The coffee shop’s finances improved after Mackenzie invested, but not enough to support Melanie’s salary increase.”

“So, Mackenzie’s dealing drugs behind the coffee shop, paying Melanie to look the other way, and the woman is claiming her hush money on her taxes.” Tucker chuckled.

“There are stupid criminals, then there are stupid criminals. Melanie probably thinks she’s doing the right thing paying taxes on the payoff. It helps ease the moral dilemma,” Dylan stated then added, “You’re coming up on the turnoff. I just wanted to give you the preliminary on Melanie.” Dylan cleared his throat and went on. “Also, Liza, I got your mother’s hospital records.”

“And?” I quickly asked.

“Two days ago she went to the emergency room with flu-like symptoms. An X-ray showed pneumonia. Her pulse ox was low, she was admitted, given IV antibiotics and breathing treatments. Her doctor’s notes indicate she’s improving. She’s due to be released tomorrow. As a precaution, her doctor prescribed her home oxygen for the next seven days or until she follows up with her primary care physician.”

“So she’s fine.”

My statement was just that—a statement, but still Dylan answered, “I’m not a doctor so I can’t say, but according to her chart, she was admitted and treated for the flu and pneumonia. The antibiotics and steroids did what they’re supposed to do, now she’s going home with the advice of taking it easy for a few days and using the portable oxygen.”

My father had made it sound like my mom needed around-the-clock care when she absolutely did not. Actually, my mother wouldn’t be best pleased to have someone fussing over her. She was the fusser, not the fussee. I didn’t understand the purpose of my father’s call. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to know my mom was ill, but the demand to come home was over-the-top, considering. He was not a caregiver, not to my mom, and certainly not to me, but the man could go to the grocery store and heat his wife up some soup after he got home from work.

“Thanks for checking on that for me, Dylan. I’ll touch base with her tomorrow when I know my father’s at work.”

“Hate to tell you this, but your father’s got a flight to New Jersey scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

And there it was.

The asshole didn’t want to cancel a trip to Atlantic City to care for his wife.

God, he was such a dick.

“Wouldn’t want to miss the NBA finals,” I muttered.

Allyson slowed. Tucker followed her lead and turned off to a gravel road that was surprisingly well kept.

“We’re here, brother. Gotta go. Thanks for the update.”

“I’ll let you know when I have more.”

Dylan rang off.

I stared at my phone, pondering the merits of calling my father. I was a woman well past the age of being ordered around by her father. I was also a woman who was beyond an age where her father should scold his child for working. I wasn’t out boiling bunnies or hatching a diabolical scheme to take down the internet. I was working. I was also thinking perhaps it was time I told my father what a monumental prick he was, always had been, and how his shitty parenting had left me with issues I was too screwed up to deal with. Though, my father would turn that last part around on me and use it as proof positive I was weak and needed to toughen up. Proof I was unworthy of his love and respect.

He was a Monroe, and Monroes were successful and feared in the boardroom.