Say You Still Love Me(126)

Not when I’m still this angry, and hurt.

Not when I feel this deceived.

Marching into my office, I shut down my computer, collect my purse and phone, and stroll out.

“Piper.” I hear my name when I’m almost to the elevator. I ignore it and keep going, only turning back once I’ve pressed the button, long enough to see my father standing at his office door, to meet his steely gaze with my own, before I step inside and am gone.




“I called every listing for Vetter in Erie, Pennsylvania, but I couldn’t find Eric or his family.” Ashley slumps in the chair beside me on our newly decorated rooftop patio. I parked myself in the chaise longue eight hours ago upon my escape from the office and haven’t moved, save for a trip to the bathroom. And, while my mood is more suited to hiding under blankets inside during a torrential downpour than lounging in a shady alcove of a rooftop patio on a hot summer’s day, I’ll admit I’ve found an odd sense of peace out here, listening to the faint and frequent horn blasts and ambulance sirens coming from King Street and beyond, and Elton’s motor-like purr as he sits beside me, oddly content as I scratch behind his ears. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he knew I needed comfort. And cared.

I reach over and squeeze Ashley’s hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.” Even if I have to go to Kyle’s condo and drag the address out of him myself.

“How could Kyle not tell us? I just don’t understand!” Tears run down her cheeks. They’re far from the first ones to escape since I broke the news about Eric to her last night. “How could we not have heard about it?”

I’ve been playing the same question over and over in my mind. “You know how it was back then. It was all Wawa, all the time, until you left and didn’t see anyone for a year. Eric was all the way in Erie . . . and social media wasn’t what it is today. I didn’t even have a Facebook account until, like, a year later.” And then it was all about keeping in touch with high school friends as I was heading off to college, and then adding college friends. Camp Wawa was a bittersweet memory by that point, one I was trying to move on from. Eric left and never came back, never reached out to anyone—not even Ashley; eventually he became that wild story about the guy who tumbled drunk down a steep hill at Wawa one summer but was okay the last anyone heard, a funny guy for people to remember fondly as everyone moved on with their lives.

A friend we lost track of.

“I found Avery online a few years ago,” Ashley admits. “Mainly because I was hoping she had heard from Eric. It didn’t sound like she knew what happened, either.” She pauses. “Do you think Darian knew?”

“Probably. She was the camp director. But I doubt the owners wanted anyone talking about underage counselors drinking and getting seriously hurt. It’s bad for business.”

But Kyle knew. Every time a mention of Eric came up, he was ducking his head or frowning, or otherwise shifting the topic away from telling me the truth. Was it because he couldn’t bring himself to tell me? Because he still felt guilty for his part in how badly things turned out that day for Eric? Or because he didn’t want to admit that he’d tracked my father down and asked him for more money?

For Eric, though. Not for himself. If he were a true extortionist as my dad accused him of being, he likely would have been lining his pockets for the past thirteen years.

But why couldn’t he have just told me all this from the start? It didn’t have to go this way.

Now . . . I just feel sick about the whole thing.

“When your dad said Eric was going to be okay, I just believed it.”

“Of course you did.” So did I. And then I was too distraught over Kyle to worry about much else except putting Wawa behind me.

“And then he never answered my texts or emails and I just assumed he was being Eric. But I should have tried harder to find him. God, this is so messed up. I feel so guilty!” Ashley rubs her cheeks dry with her palms. “I need to know how bad it is.”

“Me, too.” My gut tells me it isn’t good. I was too much in shock last night to push for details. I’ve reached for my phone a dozen times, to call Kyle—to demand information. But I find myself stalling each time, afraid I’ll break down in tears at the sound of his voice.

And this kind of conversation . . . it can’t happen via text.

The patio door opens and Christa walks out, her eyes wide.

Behind her is my father, as stern-faced as ever.

I sigh. I guess turning my phone off doesn’t mean I get to avoid him for an entire day. At least I’ve required him to come to me.

“Hi, Mr. Calloway.” Ashley forces a polite tone in greeting before leaving her seat to dart inside. She still addresses my parents formally, no matter how many times I’ve told her to stop.

“Marcelle has done a good job.” His gaze roams the space.

I frown. “How did you . . . Oh, yeah.” Mom no doubt told him. That’s a whole other conversation to be had, for another day. Thirteen years of hell—an ugly divorce, the fights, the tension, the emotional strain on me—only to find out my parents are secretly dating again.

I’m going to need a therapist after this.

Shrugging off his suit jacket and laying it tidily across the back of the chair Ashley just vacated, he takes a seat. He frowns at Elton, who, surprisingly, didn’t bolt the minute Christa showed up. “Have you phoned Gary yet to let him know we’d like to proceed with the Marquee?”