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For a second, I thought he was being funny, then, much as he read my expression, I read his.
Remorse.
God, my heart started pounding in my ears again.
"It isn’t your fault," I whispered, touched because he meant it. He didn’t know me from Adam, but he genuinely felt bad for me.
His remorse resonated on a different level too.
One survivor speaking to another survivor.
I felt it without him even having to utter another word.
Everyone who knew about that day in my life thought I was over it... The nightmares had stopped, sure, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t found coping mechanisms to deal with something I should never have had to see. He got it where few ever could.
"No, it isn’t, but I understand more than you can imagine." He dipped his chin. "Why did you want to get on my father’s good side?"
His kindness made me answer truthfully. "Because I want to write his biography."
He stared at me.
Then he stared some more.
Then his lips twitched. "Have you ever had the misfortune of meeting my father?"
"I’ve seen him at galas, much as I’ve seen most of your family at political events and charity fundraisers, but I’ve never made an effort to be introduced to you."
"Why not?"
I squirmed a little, but admitted, "You’re not supposed to meet your idols, are you?"
His brow puckered. "Idols? That’s a strong word."
"I used it for a reason. As you’ve already ascertained, I have quite a developed lexicon," I rumbled, eying him with annoyance.
"What’s to idolize?"
"I don’t worship you. It’s more like you’re my version of Justin Bieber or a K-Pop band." I wafted a hand at him. "Don’t think anything of it. I know you all put your pants on the same way and use the bathroom much as I do."
"Funny that the daughter of a rockstar doesn’t mention her father in that explanation."
"I’ve no need to. Because of him, as much as I love him, I know more than most that there’s no need to worship a singer or a musician.
"They’re more flawed than most because they have access to things few people should have at their disposal."
He pondered that, but didn’t comment on it. Instead, he said, "My father’s ego is as big as Manhattan Island. You stroke it by telling him you want to write his biography, he’d bite your hand off."
"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" I asked wryly. "In your world..."
As my words waned, he smiled. "True. I just meant he’d be very happy with that offer. That was before, however. Not anymore." His smile waned. "You’ve pissed him off by rubbing salt in wounds that are very much open still. It might seem like decades to you, but to him? Paddy’s death in particular might as well have been yesterday."
"I wanted to give him closure."
"We have closure."
"I don’t believe the Albanians killed him," I argued, but he raised a hand to stop me.
Before I could get angry at him thinking he could shut me up by raising his damn hand, Suzy murmured, "Is everything okay, Savannah? You haven’t touched your toast."
