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“Well, I’ll be damned. She’s alive?” The word sticks in his throat. “Mackenzie Malloy? God love her.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of a wild story, actually. Her parents are still missing, but she just showed up at school one day, and—”
SLAM.
My father’s fist pounds the glass. I leap back, my body reacting on instinct, even knowing he can’t hurt me.
What the hell?
Walter Hart never lashes out in violence. With his tongue, he’s inflicted wounds that will never heal. But even though he’s an ex-football player built like a tank, he’s never had to use his fists to get what he wanted when sheer force of personality was enough.
But Mackenzie’s name has stirred something in him – the caged animal lurking behind his genial facade. I stare through the glass at the man that raised me, and I don’t recognize him.
The guards leap forward and restrain him, but after a few stern words about behaving himself, they back off again. On my side, Comedian Guard cracks up laughing.
Dad picks up the phone again and glares at me through the glass. I think about the guard at the doorway, how easy it would be to turn around and leave without listening to what Dad’s about to say.
After a moment, I pick up the receiver from where it clattered to the ground and press it to my ear.
“I apologize for my outburst, son.” There’s the old Dad again – friendly and agreeable and utterly in control. “You surprised me, is all. I never expected to hear that name again. I thought we severed your connection to that family a long time ago.”
I don’t like the way he says severed, with an almost gleeful relish. “It’s just Mackenzie, Dad. Not her family. I don’t think—”
“Listen to me, boy. I know what’s best for you, and I can tell you that you don’t want to be mixed up with anyone who has the surname Malloy, no matter how pretty their mouth looks around your cock.”
That was so typical Dad. As much as he tries to smooth away the edge of his working-class upbringing, he always reveals himself in the end. It’s why we moved to Emerald Beach – Dad’s always been too big for his boots in Tennessee, and the flashy, wealth-obsessed culture of California called to him.
“Sure, Dad. I understand.” I don’t, but I remind myself he can’t do shit outside these walls.
“How are your college applications?”
“Fine. I have interviews for early entrance to Stanford and Harvard starting in a couple of weeks.” At the mention of the prestigious schools, a smile tugs at the corner of Dad’s mouth. He’s all about giving me the opportunities he never had. A real family man, except it’s a crock of shit.
“That’s my boy. You show them what the Harts are made of.” There’s that smile again – the megawatt grin he turned on whenever he was closing a sale. “I’m relying on you.”
Don’t fucking remind me.
“How’s the appeal coming?” I dread the answer to that question.
“Sanderson’s working on it.” Sanderson is my parents’ shady lawyer. His hourly rate is more than a downpayment on an apartment, and we’ve got nothing to show for it except a hefty mortgage on the house. Dad was caught red-handed, so we don’t have a pot to piss in. “If he calls you, give him anything he asks for. Otherwise, I want you to focus on college. And stay away from the Malloy girl. I doubt she’ll be around long.”
“Sure, Dad. I—”
“Times up,” the guard snaps. I glance at my watch. He’s lying his ass off – I still have twenty minutes. But this is what the guards did – they were as much prisoners of this hellhole as the inmates, and they took their fun wherever they could get it. And they love to take out their frustration on the rich douchebag who got caught selling body parts and his asshole son who thinks he’s above them.
“Wait, Elias—” but I slam the phone down and stand up to leave. Dad presses his hand against the glass. Even through the bulletproof glass I can just make out his muttered words.
Don’t disappoint me.
On the way out, I stop by the warden’s office. He doesn’t look up from his paperwork as I step inside and shut the door behind me. “I thought I could smell that fancy cologne stinking up the place.”
I stand in front of his desk, feet apart, arms folded, looking down my nose at the little weasel while he takes in my rich-boy haircut, my clothes that cost more than a month’s salary, my smooth hands that have never done a hard day’s work. I hate doing this shit, throwing my weight and my money around, acting like the cocksucking entitled prats Dad’s always railed against. “Someone’s hurt my father again. I want him moved to a private cell.”
“No can do, little man.” His insult falls flat, and he knows it. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “I’m bursting at the seams here, and private cells are for inmates who are a danger to the prison community, not second-rate crooks like your old man.”
I open the leather pouch and dump the contents on his desk. Two rolls of bills fall out. The warden cups his hand over them and slides them into his lap, cool as a cucumber.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
