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20
Bad Cuppa (Cole)
The next morning, I knock on Destiny’s door, feeling like the biggest walking shitpile alive.
“Dess?”
Silence.
Swearing, I bang on the door with my fist a few times, but she doesn’t answer. I hold my ear to the door until I hear her breathing.
She’s alive in there, at least.
Eliza’s backbone must be rubbing off. Destiny was never this bad with the stone-cold silent treatment.
Worst of all, I know I deserve it after what went down.
Still, I don’t do well with games.
I’d like to un-fuck my status as everybody’s favorite villain.
“Dess, open up.” I wait another minute before I sigh and say, “I’ve got my Swiss army knife. If I don’t think you’re okay in there, I’ll pull this door right off its hinges.”
“Dad! You’re ridiculous.”
I pull out my knife for show while I hear her stomping over. I wouldn’t actually take her door off—even I’m not that big a prick—but it’s better for her to wonder.
She tears the door open, glaring at me with her lips pursed.
“When it’s important, I need you to answer,” I say neutrally.
She still doesn’t speak and just folds her arms, indignant as ever.
“I’m going to the Wired Cup downtown for a meeting,” I say.
“Really? You woke me up for that?” She gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up.
“Destiny, I’m not asking for the damn moon. I just need you to acknowledge me when I say I’m going out.”
“You want me to talk to you? Fine.” She strains on the tips of her toes, trying and failing to reach eye level. “You’re a sexist, a jerkwad, and a rich bitch!”
“Rich...bitch?” I repeat slowly.
“Yeah! You just—God, you think you’re so much better than everyone else! You just had to assume the guys who stole my necklace were homeless. And I thought you’d actually care a little about the necklace. It was Mom’s last present, wasn’t it? Now it’s gone.”
Fuck.
I clear my throat. “Dess, we’ve already been over this homeless thing. Also, your mom had lot of jewelry—”
“Also,” she cuts in, “Eliza thinks it’s strange that they didn’t take my phone or purse.”
I freeze, cocking my head.
“What?” I have to admit, that is bizarre.
Why the hell would anyone go after that turtle and nothing else? It’s a specialty item you can’t just pawn off as easily as a ring or a bracelet.
“Did they see your phone? Or were they scared off before they could—”
“I dropped it, Dad. But whatever. It doesn’t matter, I guess. Just go to your stupid meeting.”
I hold in a brutal sigh.
She’s right.
I’ve burned this bridge and there’s no sense in playing Hardy Boys with her right now. I have other ways of figuring shit out, anyway.
I start moving away but stop and turn back to her. “Wait. Why am I a sexist pig again?”
“Eliza’s friend, Dakota—you think she’s such a damsel in distress that she can’t go anywhere without her hot married muscle?” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Boomer.”
“Okay, Zoomer,” I throw back, my nostrils flaring. “For a girl who gets straight As in history, you must’ve forgotten Boomers weren’t born in the 1980s.”
“What-ever. You act like you’re two hundred, Dad.”
“So I’m a vampire and a jerk?” My jaw tightens.
Unbelievable.
“You totally were with Eliza,” she says bitterly. “She’s the one who washed blood off my leg while you were at your dumb meeting and you didn’t even thank her. She just took care of me. She cares, Dad. Then you showed up and started barking crap.”
For a second, I’m speechless.
She’s got me there.
“Just go already,” she says with a sigh, turning her back to me. “Meetings are what you do best anyway.”
My gut sinks because she’s too fucking right.
I’m certainly not at my best right now in this house with a daughter who’s acting like my conscience personified.
I should just go before I dwell on how badly I’ve mucked things up with Eliza for the thousandth time.
How did I let my anger take the driver’s seat? How did I discard a woman who came to my daughter’s rescue?
The same way I blunder through everything else, apparently.
I am a hotheaded fool with a hornet up his ass, and regrettably, I don’t know how to be anything else.
Dealing with old demons almost seems easy after everything else.
I head inside the downtown Wired Cup store to meet an unassuming man with white hair and a brown sports jacket. He waves at me.
“Mr. Lancaster?”
I move to his table and sit down across from him. We shake hands.
“I’m not much for small talk,” I say, dispensing with the niceties. “Give it to me, please.”
“Right. There’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Lancaster, but I think your more colorful suspicions were unfounded. I’ve reviewed the autopsy report. I’ve also talked to people who knew her—the folks she spent the most time with. Everything points to suicide.”
Goddammit.
An iron fist grips my heart and squeezes it dry.
