Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(93)

“He’s a serial killer.”

“That’s not proven.” Good Lord, I felt like I was going to be sick as soon as the words left my mouth.

Her lip curled in a display of sudden disgust. “You know, I’ve met your mother. You look a lot like her, sound like her too.”

The cold resolve and detachment that had evaded me as soon as we walked into the prison made a sudden reappearance. Obviously, Agent Nelson believed my act so far. And that was good. I didn’t need her respect, but I did need her to trust I had no hidden motives. Thus, comparing me to my mother was an excellent start.

“I’m ready,” I said, meeting her stare squarely.

“Go ahead.” She gestured to the hall dismissively.

Turning from her, swathed in my cloak of numbness and determination, I told my feet to move, I told my feet to stop at the second booth. I told my body to sit in the chair facing the glass. I told myself to cross my arms. I told myself to wait.

Out of the corner of my eye I noted—and rejoiced—that Agent Nelson hadn’t closed the door and other agents had started to gather. I knew they wouldn’t be able to hear my father’s side of the conversation, but as long as she kept that door open even a little, they’d hear everything I said. Which meant I had to be believable. I had to say my lines perfectly.

Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

I didn’t allow myself to think about what would happen next. The truth was I had no idea what to expect, but the goal was to talk to him for fifteen minutes—at most—and then leave. That’s it. That’s all. I could do that. For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy.

A loud buzzing sound followed by the sound of a door unlocking yanked me from my thoughts and I flinched. My muscles tensed, ready to flee, and I held my breath. Using a mental crowbar to force my features to relax—or at least appear relaxed—I carefully wiped my face of all expression.

Wrestling with my frantically beating heart, I retreated within myself, telling my mind to take me far from here. Think of Billy. Think of Venice. Think of barley fields and red poppies. My heart slowed even as a voice within my head screamed at me to leave, to run, to flee. I smothered it.

Vaguely, I was aware that he’d sat down in the seat on the other side of the glass and bile rose up my esophagus. I felt a little faint. I needed to breathe. This is it. Think of Billy. I drew in a lungful of bracing air, held it, and I lifted my gaze.

Those electric blue eyes—which were inescapable in my nightmares—stared at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. I breathed out slowly. They were still terrifying. I firmed my lips. I held his stare. My jaw ached.

He watched me for several seconds, inspecting me as I sat perfectly still, a wave of revulsion followed the trail of his eyes. My heart didn’t precisely slow, but it had ceased galloping. Then he moved. I flinched instinctively, even though all he did was reach for the phone. Clumsily, he held it pressed between the back of his hands. I watched as he used a combination of his chin, shoulder, and the side of his limp fingers to position it in place.

I blinked, my frown genuine as I observed this shackled man and his awkward attempt to hold a telephone receiver. While he struggled, I allowed myself to truly look, to see my father as he was now and not the menacing figure in my memory.

His once long, black hair had been sheared short. He wore a cream-colored jumpsuit, much too baggy for his thin frame, that blended in with his pale skin. The large lenses of his glasses seemed too big for his narrow face. I couldn’t help but think, He’s a lot smaller than I remember.

Then he lifted his chin toward the receiver on my end and mouthed something like, Pick it up.

I did.

As soon as I brought it to my ear, his voice said, “Baby girl,” but it was slightly distorted by the connection, like talking to someone through a paper cup. Eyes narrowed, he continued his piercing inspection of me. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t either.” My voice was flat, but something about it or my words had him cracking a smile.

“Fucking dry humor.” He lifted his chin, trying to move his mouth closer to the receiver. “Why are you here? Huh? You working for the law too?”

“I’m a singer. I work for myself.”

This statement seemed to amuse him as well. “Yeah, I know. They call you the Devil’s Daughter. I like that a lot. You’ve done me proud.”

I swallowed against another threatening rise of stomach acid, shifting in my seat, suddenly wanting a scalding hot shower.

“What do you want?” His gaze grew assessing, sharper. “And don’t tell me nothing. You only come see your daddy when you want something.”

I contemplated his statement even as I spoke without vetting my words, spurred by a sudden morbid curiosity. “I do want something.”

For Billy. Do it for Billy. Think of Billy . . . But also, think of yourself.

“That’s my girl.”

“But how will I earn it? You can’t hold a knife. What happened to your hands?”

“Fucking Billy Winston happened to my hands. But I’ll see him rot.”

Morbid curiosity became something else at the sound of Billy’s name passing his lips. How dare he say Billy’s name.

Instead of fear, I felt anger, for what he’d done to me, for what he’d done to Billy and all those families. It rose like a tidal wave, washing away every trepidation and worry. I was a warrior of justice. I rode on the wings of righteousness. I would destroy this man. I would protect and keep Billy safe. And yes, I would do it for Billy.