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CHAPTER ONE
CARMEN
Six Months Later
One hundred and eighty some odd days. That’s how long it’s been since Lydia confessed Malcolm’s murder to me. I still don’t know exactly how it happened, or the gritty details, but I don’t want to. I don’t need to. I’ve been nothing but a good friend and acted like everything is normal, exactly how she asked.
Luckily, I think she was right though. At this point, everyone has forgotten about Malcolm McLane, and no one in town is any the wiser. Lydia knows only because she was part of the investigation. What police thought of as an accident quickly turned into suspicion of murder, then bam. As soon as the laptop was found, it bounced back and was labeled a terrible accident, and everyone went on with their lives.
I do my best not to think about it because I don’t feel there is a point. Sure, it sucks, but at the same time, I would never give Lydia up. Maybe one day I may need her to keep a secret for me too. Who knows?
As I pull into my drive, I see the garage open and my dad’s Mercedes, his everyday driver, parked inside. “Great.”
I’ve been fortunate enough that he’s been on more trips than usual. He calls them business trips, but I know what they are. He has a different woman in every city along the coast. Sure, some of the trips he makes are for business—to make sure things are running smoothly and in order—but not all of them.
I kill the ignition once I’m in park and step out. If I’m lucky, he won’t see me if I go through the front. When I make it to the front door, I lean against it and see if I can hear him inside. Not even two seconds pass before William’s voice is pouring out through the intercom.
“He’s already seen you, Carmen. Come in and have dinner.”
I stare right at the camera by the door and roll my eyes, then flip it off. I know William means well, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I push open the door, then step through the foyer and into the dining room. You would think for a family of three, we would only need something small, but Dad is all about the dramatics and flaunting his cash. In the center of the room is a sixteen-foot-long mahogany table with fourteen matching chairs. One on each end and six on each side. It’s a table meant for entertaining, but it’s never seen more than me, my dad, and William.
“Mija.” My dad smiles, his thick accent coating the word.
I salute him. “Alexander.”
He shakes his head with the click of his tongue. I know he hates when I use his name and not Dad, but I feel it’s only appropriate.
“How is school?” he asks, playing the role of good father, but that’s all it is and all it’s ever been. An act.
I glance at William, who is standing at the end of the table, acting like he’s not listening when I know he is. He shakes his head with a small smile. “Sir, she graduated last May. She’s been done with school for months now.”
I pull the chair out directly across from him and plop down. “Yep.” I pop the p. “What he said.”
My dad nods, looking down to the plate in front of him. “I’ve been so busy with work. I’m sorry.”
I roll my eyes and take a swig from the crystal water glass positioned to the top right side of my plate. “You’re always busy. Don’t sweat it.” I brush him off. It’s always excuses or fake apologies with him, and I’d rather not hear it.
He nods again, then grabs the napkin from his lap. He wipes nonexistent crumbs from his goatee, then places it on his plate—still full of food—and clears his throat. “About that…”
“Here we go,” I mumble, knowing he’s about to go on a tangent about having to leave, even if he just got back. Honestly, I couldn’t give a fuck less. I’m used to it. The excuses and explanations aren’t necessary.
“I have to leave again tomorrow morning. I’m heading to Miami to hopefully secure a new location. I was hoping you would come?”
I glance up from my plate and swallow hard. “What?”
“I want you to—”
I hold up my hand. “No. I heard you, but why?”
He shrugs. “I thought it may be nice to show you what I do while I’m gone. You are going to take over once I’m gone, after all.”
“Take over?” I let out a barking laugh. “What’s my favorite color, Dad?”
He seems thrown off by my question, but I just cross my arms and never let my stare waver. “Pink?” It’s more of a question than an answer.
I stand and let out a chuckle, trying to hide the hurt that’s building in my chest. “Black. It’s black. If you think I’m taking over your company when you can’t even tell me my favorite color, you’re delusional. Bet you don’t even know my birthday.” I push in my chair and wait, seeing if he’ll try and guess.
