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“He’s the father of your child. You’ve got some sort of bizarre relationship going on. And the other day, it seemed like you cared.” Andrew rattled off reason after reason when none of them even touched close to the truth.
“In case you didn’t notice, he doesn’t care about Blake or me. Was he anywhere to be found after the hearing?” I’d expected him to be, and it hurt worse than I cared to admit when he wasn’t. Whether it was fair or not, it was just the way I felt.
“Iknewyou were pissed,” he said almost triumphantly.
“How much did you wager with Holt?”
“Five bucks. And I told him not to hang around. Not with all this shit he’s in.”
“He could’ve called. For all he knows, Blake’s with—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, the pain at the thought of my baby being anywhere but with me too much.
“Marlow, the man has been accused of rape.”
We were quiet for a minute.
“Hypothetically speaking. If this were you and Trish in the situation, what would you do?”
“C’mon. I’m not going to speculate on things I know nothing of.”
“Fine.” I tapped my foot on the linoleum kitchen floor. “If you’d been there for her when she really needed you and then disappeared, what would that mean?”
“This is Patrick we’re talking about. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“You’re no help.”
“I’ve never seen him the way he is with you and Blake. He loves you. That’s why he was there the other night.”
The words struck me like a blunt force object. I felt that in the way he held me. He never made any false promises.
He never let me go.
“Have you talked to Dad?” My throat was dry. I cleared it to no avail.
“About thirty minutes ago. He’s waiting for Mrs. Quinn to come by. They’re going to play checkers or bridge or something.”
What?
“Last I heard they weren’t speaking.”
“He’s barely speaking to anyone, but somehow he must’ve gotten enough out to patch things up.” He sounded as surprised as I felt. “We still on for tomorrow night?”
“You better be there.”
I ended the call and picked up Blake from his chair. “How do you feel about going to see Grandpa?”
“How.”
“You should’ve been an attorney.”
“I’m insulted by that,” I said to Kane Zegas as I handed the woman behind the glass my driver’s license.
“You get what you want. That’s an admirable quality.”
“Patrick isn’t out of here.” I surveyed the bland receiving area of the jail. Gray. Everywhere.
“Do you have any idea what it took to even allow him a visitor?”
“If I cared, I’d have asked.”
