Page 47 of Torched Spades

“Talking to yourself is a cry for help. You, of all people, should know that.”

I glance to my right to see an unwelcome face. “Great… And here I thought my week couldn’t get any worse.”

The man’s sharp gaze settles on my beer. “And I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what do you call that?”

Snorting, I bring the mug back to my lips. “Until thirty seconds ago, a pleasant evening.”

“Alone again, I see.”

“Having your minions keep tabs on me again, I see.”

My father sighs as he slips onto the stool next to me. “Come on, Becca. I don’t want to fight with you. I’ve been worried about you.”

“You’re twenty-two years too late.”

He bristles at my jab, but as usual, quickly smothers any genuine emotion with a plastic smile. “Sweetheart, you have got to stop doing this to yourself. Self-imposed isolation isn’t healthy.”

An exaggerated eye roll accompanies my mug back onto the bar. I twirl the card still in my hand, tapping one end and then the other on the distressed wood. “Well, youwouldbe the expert on my health. After all, you paid enough to own the rights to it.”

His smile hardens to a scowl. “We’re not having this conversation again, Becca.”

“We’re not havinganyconversation, Dad.”

But just like he has since I was twelve, my father ignores everything I say. “I’m talking about this solitary life you’ve forced on yourself since your mother died,” he continues. “I can look at you and see what a toll it’s taken on you. For God’s sake, the only human interaction you have is with those deranged people who come in and out of your office.”

I grit my teeth.Unbelievable.After all these years, he still has my life under a microscope. “They’re called patients.”

“Exactly. They’re patients, not friends,” he retorts, his icy blue eyes narrowing to slits. “What about Jack?”

I turn away so he doesn’t see the guilt on my face. “What about him?”

“I know for a fact you haven’t returned his calls or texts in months.”

I flinch because it’s the truth, then sigh because it’s unfair.

Thirteen years ago, my closest childhood friend became one of Providence’s finest, and I’ve been setting boundaries ever since. But it was his promotion to detective six months ago that forced a wall between me and the only other man who knows my secret.

“You two used to be so close, Becca,” my father prods. “Jack cares about you. Why are you shutting him out of your life?”

“Maybe because he gives you direct access to it.”

“He’s on the force, Becca, not my payroll,” he says, giving me a dismissive wave of his hand. “My point is, you can’t keep punishing yourself.”

I flash him a cold smile. “Who else am I going to punish for Mom’s death? You? Remember, I’m just a traumatized little girl who invented the boogeyman as a coping mechanism for my PTSD.” I draw out the last four letters with thick contempt.

He grabs my arm so hard my stool wobbles. “Would you keep your voice down?”

“Why? No one’s going to believe anything I say anyway.” Jerking my arm out of his hold, I let out a humorless laugh. “You made sure of that.”

Every little girl imagines her father to be the noble knight in all her fairy tales. At least I did. Then I learned the truth.

Fairy tales aren’t real.

Noble knights don’t exist.