Brutal Obsession (39)

I bristle. “It’s one of my main areas of focus, yes.”

“Because…?”

“I’d like to play for the NHL.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

He looks a bit like me. Gray hair, because polls say that people trust men more when they show their age in their hair. Smooth skin from routine Botox appointments—because polls say that people don’t actually want their politicians to look old—and manicured eyebrows. Everything is a fabrication, right down to his spray-tanned skin.

It’s like leather against his white shirt.

Still, there are hints of similarity. The color of our eyes, for example. The square jaw. Even our noses. I pulled some features from my mother, like her dark-blonde hair, her fair skin, her smile. Maybe that’s why Dad wrinkles his nose in disgust whenever I show happiness.

“You need to set more reasonable expectations,” he says. “There are a lot of eyes on us. Voters haven’t quite forgiven us for your mess-up.”

Ah. I knew he’d cut to the chase sooner or later, but I am surprised it’s this. His own stupid political campaign.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “There’s a reporter sniffing around. Picked up the story by dogging the local police for a scoop, and some rookie gave him a soundbite to run with. Pointed him in the direction of the junkyard that took the cars.” He waves his hand, then busies himself with the silverware.

I watch, dumbfounded, as he shakes out his napkin. The fabric snaps before billowing down to his lap. He straightens his wine glass, the water glass.

“I’m taking care of it,” he adds.

An afterthought.

“What does that mean?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from fidgeting. He’s always hated my desire to move. Still waters run deep, he used to tell me. As if to insinuate that if I move too quickly, I can’t have a single complex thought or emotion.

“The reporter won’t find anything.” Dad smiles at me. “Your grades are good?”

Another question to tick off his checklist.

I nod along. “Yep. Straight A’s last semester.”

“And this one?”

“Should maintain the four-point-zero just fine.” Probably.

I lean back and kick my legs out, taking another look around the room. I clock a journalist—probably one hired by my father to document the father-son bonding time—and Dad’s security at a separate table. Their gazes are alert, too, as they scout for signs of trouble.

“Good, good.” Dad checks his phone, then looks up.

A waiter approaches with food, quickly setting it down in front of us. Food I didn’t order. Grilled salmon, asparagus, coconut rice. I lean down and sniff it, my stomach already turning. I haven’t eaten fish since I was seven. Coconut irritates my skin, makes me break out in hives. The smell does something to me, too, because the churning in my gut doesn’t ease.

Dad has steak and mashed potatoes, broccoli covered in a glazed sauce and sesame seeds. He glances over at me and frowns. “I ordered for us. Hope you don’t mind, it seemed you were running late.”

I wasn’t, but I don’t bother arguing. Or pointing out his failure to know my food preferences.

He’d have to actually share more than five meals with me over the last year for that to happen.

I pick at the salmon and cut the asparagus carefully, avoiding the coconut rice. I divide the green stalks into small, manageable pieces, and shove them into my mouth one at a time. I watch Dad devour his steak like he’s never had anything better, while I take gulps of water between each small bite of salmon.

Finally, our meal comes to an end. My father finishes his wine and food, and I’ve messed my plate up enough to look like I put a dent in all of it. He pats his mouth with his napkin and slips the waiter his card.

Once the receipt comes back, he signs it with a flourish. He rises, and I mirror him. We walk to the door together, and he hugs me again. It’s one of those things that I wish I could duck out of, because he doesn’t deserve this publicity. Maybe he sees it on my face because he grips me harder.

Out of the corner of my eye, a camera flash pops. Capturing our engineered moment.

His mouth presses against my ear. “You fucking owe me, kid. The least you can do is look happy to see your old man once a quarter. Now smile.”

I smile on autopilot as we step back. I offer my hand, and he shakes it once. His fingers are cool and dry, not a callous on him, and he squeezes once. There’s another flash of a camera. Then, I’m free.

I take a step back and watch him get into the car. I catch a blur of pink fabric and know Martha’s already inside, waiting out of sight. The driver closes them in, encasing them in a tinted glass bubble, and I remain on the sidewalk. I slip my hands into my pockets, and I watch them pull away from the curb. I ignore the reporter who lingers in my peripheral.

No part of me wishes tonight had ended differently, because my thoughts are already turning to Violet. Where would she be?

The better question: where would she think I wouldn’t find her?

I mull that over and start walking. I unbutton the top of my shirt and crack my neck. Already, I can see Crown Point in my mind and start to piece together more of what I know about Violet. Anticipation licks at my skin. I’m eager to begin the hunt.