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My legacy.
I was in a bad position, had made some really huge mistakes, but I could fix them.
I would fix them.
I wiped my face, tried to make sure that my appearance gave nothing away, and stepped out of the bathroom, stopping short when I almost ran into someone.
“I’m sorry—” I cut off when I realized it was Davit.
“Are you okay, Amy?”
He spoke to me in Josh Kelley’s voice, but his eyes were all Davit.
“Umm…I’m okay, Josh. I’m just headed out,” I said, my voice falsely cheerful.
“You want to grab a bite?” he asked.
To anyone passing, the conversation would be congenial, two friendly colleagues chatting, but the exchange that was happening with our eyes was so much more.
I had been avoiding him, and he knew it.
You’d think he would understand why, but the look he was giving me now was anything but understanding.
“No, thanks. I’m a little beat,” I said.
That definitely wasn’t a lie.
I hadn’t slept well since that night, and suspected he knew that.
He held my gaze for a long moment, then finally shrugged. “Okay, some other time,” he said.
As he walked away, his khakis perfectly pressed, his polo shirt tucked in neatly, I couldn’t help but marvel.
He’d been born into this life, but he was handling the lies and deception with ease, handling it in a way that I never would.
I made it to my car, cranked it up, but didn’t leave, not immediately.
Then I clicked in my seat belt, determined.
I had to do this.
There was no other choice. Still, I couldn’t help but remember that gun and tried not to think about what Davit was capable of. What he would do when he found out.
Something I’d have to handle when the time came. But as much as I wished there was another way, I couldn’t stand by and let all that my family had built be destroyed.
So I pushed those thoughts away and drove to my house to grab my files, then headed to my father’s. I made the drive quickly, part of me knowing my father would be upset that I came by unannounced, but not caring.
I parked and then went to the concierge’s desk.
“Is Mr. James in?”
“You have a visitor, sir,” the concierge said after he’d picked up the phone to call my father.
I had come here before, but I guess not often enough to be recognized or to get buzzed up without question.
“He asks who it is and what the purpose of the visit is.”
I cleared my throat. “It’s Amy James. His daughter. I need to speak with him.”
