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“We’ve been here less than an hour. Five hundred and seventy-five dollars?”
Nash nodded.
Oh my God!
Her shoulders sagged. She had the cash to back it, but it was not how she’d intended to spend her money. This would be a major dent in her car savings. Dammit! She reached into her bag, pulling out her wallet.
“My dad is cursing my name.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said it, but it was true.
“Why is that?” The owner asked, catching her completely off guard.
“What?”
“Why would your father be cursing your name?”
“Oh.” She laughed, thinking of her dad. Gah, just the thought of him made her smile even in the worst predicaments. “He was a lover of cheap beer. A six-pack under ten. That was his motto.”
Men like the owner or Nash wouldn’t understand. They were in a different realm.
“Still his motto?” he asked, lifting his cigar to his lips.
It would have been. She was sure of it. But he never got the chance to keep it.
“He passed away eight years ago.”
“How?”
His question caught her off guard. Most people offered an awkward condolence or said nothing at all. Very rarely did anyone pry into something so personal.
“A robbery gone wrong.”
“Your father tried to rob some place?”
The insinuation sent a heated response, and she immediately snapped. “No, of course not!”
His gaze darkened. “Then how?”
This was intrusive. It was personal. She fiddled with her fingers, glancing up at the men lining the balcony. None of them made eye contact, but they were all within ear shot and on high alert. They’d hear it. It wasn’t any type of secret. Anyone with a computer and a name could search for it. That’s what he was…a mere internet search. It spoke nothing of his character or who he was. Some called him a hero, while others called him a fool.
“How?” The man prompted her again. There was no getting out of telling the story. She wasn’t ashamed. It was just hard to retell it. It evoked too much emotion, too much pain, and too much regret for a situation she had no hand in.
“He’d gotten off his shift at the power company. He worked there for almost twenty-five years. He would have retired in ten.” Her dad was only forty-seven. People don’t die at forty-seven. At least they’re not supposed to. Ninety or ninety-five, and if they were lucky, they’d blow out one hundred candles. But never only forty-seven.
Dahlia cleared her throat. “He stopped in the convenience store down the street from our house. A six-pack and a pack of cigarettes. My mom tried to get him to quit for years, but he just loved smoking.” She smiled, glancing down at the cigar burning in the ashtray. “You get it, right?”
She glanced up, but he gave no facial response, and she quickly shifted her gaze to the table.
“Yeah, so he uh…” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “He stopped in as usual. Went to the back refrigerator cases, grabbed his beer, and he walked up to the counter. There was a man with a gun aiming it at the cashier. Tony. He owned the store. Still does. But, uh, the guy was robbing the store. Had a gun and was threatening Tony. My dad kind of hung back from what people told me, but then the guy took a shot behind the counter, and my dad charged forward. He actually got the gun away from the robber, but, um…there was another guy playing lookout. He shot my dad. It went straight through, hitting him right in the heart.” Her breath caught in her throat. It always did. That one phrase played over and over in her head. Straight through the heart.
“Anyone else die?”
She shook her head and tightened her lips.
“Probably could’ve saved himself had he not tried to be a hero.”
She slowly nodded, then immediately shook her head as the words sunk in.
“No?” he asked.
