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“No. I have a date with Noah in a little while.”
His lips pull tight. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“What’s in this?” I ask when he hands me the manila folder, though I can already surmise.
“Noah Russo doesn’t exist. Neither under that name nor anything that sounds remotely similar.”
I pull out the report that shows the searches done on Noah. Along with several screen shots saying he’s not found, there are photographs of him in the gallery and our house, taken on different days.
“Not a single camera was able to capture his face,” he states with unmasked disgust. “He knew there were cameras and purposely avoided them.”
“You can’t be certain of that.” I shove the folder back at him and stand.
“Yes, I can.” He grabs my arm before I can walk past him and spins me so that I’m left with no choice but to listen. “You know what kind of man knows how to avoid facial recognition? The kind who doesn’t want to be identified. He’s a criminal.”
“Stop it.” I tug my arm out of his grasp. “Just because you couldn’t get him on camera doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.”
“Then why couldn’t I find him? Not a single fucking record.”
“Maybe I got his last name wrong.” It’s out before I can catch myself.
Dad narrows his eyes on me. “You don’t know his name, and you’re already sleeping with him?”
“I know his name,” I hiss, embarrassed and indignant.
“Emily Jane,” he grits through his teeth, his skin turning red as if he’s trying with all his might not to explode on me. “You promised that if I found anything, even a hint of something wrong, you’d stop dating him.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You have yet to show me anything wrong.”
“Em—”
“No, Dad. I’m an adult. You can give me advice, but you cannot force me to take it.”
He slices his hand through the air. “I can as long as you live under my roof.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks as my temper gets the better of me. “Really? Is that what you’re going with?”
We stare at each other, angrier than we’ve ever been. His nostrils flare, as do mine. This time, no matter how much I remind myself that I love him, my fury isn’t waning.
“I’m going to see Noah whether you like it or not,” I finally say to him.
“Not while you live here.”
“That can be fixed.” I stomp from the room and slam the door in my wake.
“Emily!” my father roars behind me.
But I don’t stop to listen. I rush down the stairs and am out the front entrance, then down the street before I realize what I’ve done. But I still don’t stop. I run for two miles in flip-flops, anger fueling my steps, the sketchpad and pencils still clutched in my hand.
God, I hate getting angry. Much more so when it’s directed at Dad. However, right now, I’m not of a mind to go back and try to make things right.
“Pissed me off,” I mumble as I tug my phone from my jean’s pocket and dial Noah.
“Emily,” he answers after just one ring. “I’m getting ready to come get you.”
“Don’t go to the house,” I tell him. “I’m not there.”
“Where are you?”
