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“And for you, sir?” Claire asks me. “Would you care for wine, beer, or perhaps a soft drink?”
“I’ll have what Layla’s having,” I say.
Layla looks a bit surprised by my choice. I imagine she’s drinking water to better manage her glucose level, so I will too. Solidarity.
For dessert, we get individual little dishes of bread pudding with a warm rum butter sauce over top. Except for Layla. She gets a small bowl of strawberries with a tiny bit of whipped cream on top.
I watch as Layla programs an estimate of how many grams of carbs she ate for dinner into her Omnipod. Her pump will automatically calculate how much insulin to give her. I’ll check her glucose level again about an hour after we eat.
After the meal, Tyler and Ian are telling us all about their new venture as private investigators. When Layla went missing, Tyler and Ian searched for her. At the time, Tyler was on administrative leave from his job in the police department while they investigated bogus assault charges brought against him by some asshole carrying a grudge. By investigating Layla’s disappearance, Tyler violated the terms of his leave, and it got him fired. I don’t blame him for the choices he made. He was searching for his boyfriend’s missing sister. I would have done the same thing if I’d been in his position.
After we’re done eating, Martin catches my gaze and nods toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, everyone,” he says as he rises from his chair. “I’ll be in my office. Why don’t you join me, Jason?”
I can tell from the tone of his voice that it wasn’t exactly an invitation. It was more of a demand. I stand, pushing my chair back, and lay my hand lightly on Layla’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Layla’s father is waiting for me in the hallway. “Come to my office,” he says, nodding down the corridor. “I’d like a word with you.”
“Of course.” I follow him to a closed mahogany door. He opens it and motions for me to step inside. “Have a seat, Jason,” he says, pointing at the chair in front of a dark wooden desk.
The room looks like what I’d imagine a judge’s office would look like. Most of the walls are lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound books that look awfully official, not to mention expensive. These books probably contain the entire legal precedence of the United States.
I sit across the desk from him, and he studies me a moment before he opens a fancy wooden cigar box. “Care for one? They’re imported from Havana.”
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I.” He pulls a cigar out of the box, cuts off the tip, and lights it. After taking a few puffs to ignite the tobacco, he lays the cigar in a glass ashtray. “I don’t smoke them anymore—my wife made me quit years ago—but I like the aroma. They remind me of my father and grandfather. I don’t think I ever saw my grandfather without a cigar between his lips.”
He opens a bottle of Glenfiddich and pours a shot in a crystal tumbler. “How about a drink, then?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I’m on duty.”
He nods approvingly. “Good answer. I noticed you drank water at dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is that? You could have had anything you wanted. Beer, wine.”
“Because it was what Layla was drinking.”
“And why do you think she drinks water at dinner?”
“To control her blood sugar.”
He nods, then takes a sip of his Scotch. “Of course, with your medical background, you already know that, don’t you? I’m curious as to why you chose water.”
“If I expect Layla to limit her sugar intake, then I think it’s only fair that I do, too.”
Again, he nods. “I’m impressed. Are you going to make choices like that all the time, or just when her mother and I are around to notice?”
I bite back a grin. The man is straightforward, and I respect that. “All the time, sir. It’s only fair.”
“Excellent. I like the way you think, Jason.” He leans back in his leather chair and places his hands over his abdomen. “I’ll get straight to the point. I need something from you.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“I need you to make me a promise.”
“If it’s in accordance with my professional duties, then yes. I’m happy to.”
