Page 28

Twenty-Eight

Stephanie

“Easy with that stress ball.”

Jackson reaches over and plucks it from my hand.

“She said five minutes, three times a day. You’ve been working that thing nonstop since we took off.”

Working that thing? I can barely make a dent in the squishy material

“But I can do more,” I protest, trying to get the ball back but he tucks it out of reach in his jeans pocket.

I could make a dive for it, but an action like that might be misconstrued by the passengers sitting around us. I’ll get it back once we’ve picked up our rental car. Annoyed, I turn my head to look out the window, not that there’s much to see, whatever part of the country we’re currently flying over, it’s pretty much clouded over.

“Trust me,” he urges in a low voice, leaning in to me. “You overwork that arm now; you could do damage that’ll set you right back. I’ve been there and it sucks. Just stick to the plan the PT laid out this morning and learn to be patient. It’ll get you much further in the end.”

I wish I could cross my arms in defiance, but that’s a bit of a challenge when one of them is in a sling. At least I’ve been given the all-clear and can look forward to a shower at the hotel tonight.

We caught a flight into Grand Rapids, but since we’ll be arriving fairly late, we’re booked at a hotel not too far from the airport. We’ll pick up our rental, crash for the night at the hotel, and drive up to Traverse City first thing in the morning. It’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive.

I hope to find my father home. To be honest, I have no idea how he gets through his days, but I do know he still lives in the old house. Not a surprise, he’s probably too stubborn to give it up, but I’d prefer to spend as little time as possible there. My last eight or so years living there erased any lingering good memories from when Mom was still alive. The house could burn down and I wouldn’t blink.

I’m not sure how he’ll react when he sees me, and part of me is scared of what I may find out, but it’s better to know than to wonder.

“I can hear you thinking again.”

I turn my head to find Jackson smiling.

“I just don’t like not knowing what to expect,” I admit. “And I hate that Vallard is still messing with my head from beyond the grave.”

I told Jackson about the references Ben made to my father’s involvement a few days ago, when I was looking at flights. To his credit, he didn’t once tell me I should’ve shared that information with Bellinger. Instead, he seemed to understand my need to confront my father face-to-face.

“Can’t tell you what to expect, but be prepared to find out the worst. Whether or not he decides to share with you, you’ll know either way. And—if I can put my two cents’ worth in—I think he’s up to his eyeballs. It would explain why he’s steering completely clear of you right now.”

I have a hard time admitting I’ve had those thoughts myself. Because even if he doesn’t care much for me, he cares about appearances and his reputation with the Bureau.

“Could be.”

“So what is the plan? If he’s home, if he’s willing to talk, and if he admits having even had some minor involvement with this, what do you want to do?”

I’ve thought about this. A lot. So far I’ve justified leaving my father’s name out of things because I conveniently hung on to the idea Ben was playing games with me. However, once I have confirmation, I have no choice but to report it to Bellinger. I know my career may already be over, and he may be my father, but I’m not willing to give up my honor or my integrity for him.

“If that is the case, I’m giving him twenty-four hours to do the right thing. If he hasn’t turned himself in by that time, I will share what I know with Bellinger.”

“Will you get in trouble?” he asks, slipping his hand in mine.

“Probably. Hell, they may even draw into question whether or not I had any involvement with these crimes myself, but so be it. They won’t find anything on me, and at least I’ll know, for once and for all, my father doesn’t give a single fuck about me.”

I’m pissed I’m still shedding a tear at that deep ache of rejection I thought I’d left behind me. But my use of profanity has drawn the attention of the elderly woman sitting on Jackson’s other side. She leans forward and pins me with a disapproving glare.

“Keep your vulgar language to yourself,” she hisses.

Jackson doesn’t hesitate to swing around at her and block her view of me, responding in a calm, but dead-serious voice.

“Respectfully, mind your own fucking business… Ma’am ,” he adds with emphasis, before turning his back on her.

When he turns back to me, I’m struggling to hold back my laughter. I can hear the woman’s disgruntled mumblings behind him.

“Diplomacy is not your forte, but at least you were polite, I’ll give you that.”

* * *

“No.”

I take in a deep breath, trying to keep my cool, as we pull into my old neighborhood in Traverse City.

“He may be more forthcoming if?—”

“No. I’m not going to let you walk in there alone,” he insists.

“You wouldn’t insist if I was a guy,” I fire back at him.

He shrugs.

“No, I wouldn’t. And not because they have a dick, but because I’m not in- fucking -love with a guy. How could you even ask me to sit this one out after what we went through less than two weeks ago?”

I already had my mouth open to fire off the next retort but quickly shut it and swallow my words. I’m being a hypocrite; if the roles were reversed, I likely wouldn’t let him go in alone either.

“Okay.”

His head pivots around at my rather abrupt capitulation to an argument we’ve been waging off and on since we left Grand Rapids earlier.

“Seriously?”

It’s my turn to shrug, and I do it with a smirk. “What can I say? You finally made a solid point.”

He doesn’t seem amused at my attempt to lighten the mood.

A moment later I don’t think it’s funny anymore either, as he pulls up in front of my old house.

What once was a source of pride, a facade of respectability and standing, has become an eyesore. A lawn that is so badly overgrown, you can barely see what used to be perfectly trimmed boxwood hedges my father meticulously maintained. Paint is peeling from the columns of the porch and off the window frames. The porch deck is buckling with moisture and rot. Even the mailbox beside the front door is hanging lopsided, held up by only one screw.

The place looks abandoned, and for a brief moment I wonder if perhaps he’s no longer here after all. But then I notice his old Mercury Grand Marquis, still parked in front of the garage, although it looks like it hasn’t moved from there in a while, with weeds sprouting up around the tires.

“Wow. Someone doesn’t like yard work,” Jackson observes. “Is that normal?”

I shake my head and am about to say no, but then I reconsider. I haven’t been back here in over a decade. Who knows what constitutes normal anymore?

“I couldn’t really tell you.”

* * *

Jackson

I can feel the heavy anticipation coming off Stephanie in waves as we approach the house.

I’d like to hold her hand, give her some physical support, but I know better than to touch her. I’m sure it’s taking all her resolve and strength to hold her head high like that and walk straight up to that door. I’ll just hang back and be prepared to do damage control as needed.

The only thing that doesn’t sit well with me is the fact I ended up not being straightforward with Jonas and my mother about our reason for coming here. Not that I had to lie outright, but staying purposely vague about the reason for the visit felt deceitful nonetheless.

Stephanie tries the doorbell first, but when that doesn’t work, resorts to knocking on the door.

A voice booms from inside.

“Jesus Christ, Mabel! The door’s open like it always is!”

Stephanie throws me a look over her shoulder—maybe to reassure herself I’m still here—before pushing open the door and entering the house.

I was prepared for bad odors and decay in here too, but other than a mild musty smell and faded wallpaper, the interior of the house looks neat as a pin.

“Mabel?”

At the back of the house a wheelchair rolls into view, the stooped figure of a man staring down the hallway at us. Half his face droops and his clothes hang off his body.

Stephanie inhales sharply and steps back into my body. I place a hand on her hip to steady her.

“Dad?”

From what I heard of her father, I’d pictured him strong and unyielding, not this wisp of a man a stiff wind could blow away. His voice still holds power when he recognizes his daughter.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Stephanie visibly collects herself before addressing her father.

“I wanted to see you.”

The man makes a dismissive noise and fixes his one visible eye on me.

“And who are you?”

“That’s Jackson Hart, Dad. My partner,” she responds before I can.

Interesting she chose the term partner instead of boyfriend, even though it can mean the same. I have a sneaky suspicion she’s well aware her father may be more likely to interpret the term as professional partner rather than romantic one. But, despite her father’s obvious failing health, his mind proves to still be sharp.

“Doesn’t look like a federal agent to me.”

“I never said he was,” Stephanie grudgingly admits.

The old man harrumphs, and abruptly turns his wheelchair, disappearing out of sight. I follow Stephanie down the hallway to what turns out to be a kitchen. Her dad is at the kitchen table, a newspaper spread out in front of him.

“You had a stroke. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks him.

“Coffee in the pot is old. Mabel should be here any minute, she can make fresh,” he rumbles, ignoring her question, and not looking away from his daily news.

“Who’s Mabel?” Stephanie changes direction as she opens a cupboard and pulls down two cups.

Clearly not much has changed since she lived here. I lean a shoulder against the doorpost, determined to remain in the background.

“Cleaning lady. What are you doing here?”

Man, this guy is something else. My fingers curl in my pockets at the way he addresses Stephanie. It’s gonna be hard to keep my tongue.

Stephanie ignores his sharp question and pours us each a cup from the thermos on the kitchen counter.

“I assume you heard about Ben Vallard?” she asks with her back still turned to him.

I’m watching him though, and his reaction to hearing that name is as if someone slapped him across the face. Even his voice suddenly sounds deflated.

“Yeah. He’s dead.”

Stephanie hands me a cup and I catch her father turning his rheumy eyes on us.

“Did you kill him?”

For a moment I’m a little uneasy, not entirely sure who the question was directed at, but Stephanie responds.

“Does it matter? He tried to kill me.”

I’m shocked the man doesn’t even look surprised, he just nods.

“Did he do that?” he gestures at the sling she is wearing.

“No,” she clarifies as she moves back to the counter, picks up her cup, and leans a hip against the edge. “That was Mitchel Laine.”

No visible reaction from her father. He either doesn’t know the name or isn’t at all surprised to hear it. My vote is on the latter.

“Do you remember him, Daddy? Mitchel? Did you know he survived?”

The man has ice in his veins, the way he looks at his daughter.

“Heard he’s a vegetable.”

Stephanie nods, taking a sip of the black tar her father calls coffee without flinching. The woman is pure steel.

“We thought so until this morning when he woke up. It’s looking like he might be talking soon.”

A slight exaggeration but one that has the desired effect as the remaining blood drains from the old man’s face.

“It’ll be interesting to find out what he has to say,” she adds as an extra push.

Her father bites.

“He’s a criminal. It’ll be nothing but lies.”

“Maybe,” Stephanie indulges him. “But he had plenty to say before he tried to use me as leverage with Ben. Of course, you and I both know that didn’t go very far, since I never was more to Ben than a plaything. You knew that, right, Daddy?”

She’s relentless as she pushes him. I can only imagine she’d be a force to reckon with in the interrogation room.

“Anyway,” she continues, swirling around the dregs in the bottom of her cup before pinning her father with a look. “Ben ended up talking plenty himself before he was taken out. Boasted, actually. So eager to show me how superior he was. But he wasn’t careful enough, was he? No. Guess he wasn’t quite the FBI agent you both imagined him to be. His first mistake was underestimating me. His last mistake was leaving two witnesses behind. Did you honestly think you were safe, Dad?”

She expertly rattles the old man, who is now almost purple in the face, clutching the armrests of his wheelchair with gnarled, bloodless fingers.

“He was like a son to me. Looked out for me after David died and left me with hospital bills that would’ve put me on the street had he not intervened. That’s more than I can say for you,” he snarls. “You were worthless then, and you’re worthless now.”

I push away from the doorpost at his spineless verbal assault, but a sharp headshake from Stephanie stops me in my tracks.

“Good to know I’m worthless to you, Daddy. It makes this next part so much easier.”

She carefully sets her cup in the sink and walks over to the kitchen table, planting her left hand on the surface as she leans down in his face.

“You have twenty-four hours to turn yourself in. Consider it my final gift to you. If you haven’t turned yourself in by noon tomorrow, I will do it for you.”

With that she turns on her heel and walks toward me, her face an impassive mask. Yet I see the tiny muscle ticking at the corner of her mouth, she’s barely holding it together.

The old man cackles at her back as he decides to try and bully her one last time.

“You? Your word against mine? You were a failure from the start. Do you have any idea of the connections I still have in the Bureau?”

My presence is ignored. Not that I care much about that, I’m too busy focusing on Stephanie’s face to gauge the impact of his words as she approaches.

She stops right in front of me and shoves her left hand into the opening of her sling, pulling out the phone I never saw her tuck in there. Clever woman, she was recording this entire conversation.

With a faint smile for me she turns around one last time, holding up her phone for her father to see.

“Word of warning, Daddy,” she cautions him in a calm, but deadly voice. “Do not make the mistake of underestimating me again.”