Say You Still Love Me(54)

“I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes and mock-zips his lips closed. “Have you talked to Mom lately?”

“A week ago. She’s redecorating at Martha’s Vineyard.” Again.

“?‘I’m glad to see she’s still enjoying the fruits of my labor,’?” Rhett murmurs, imitating our father’s bitter, deep tone.

“Right?” I shake my head. “I can’t even remember them ever liking each other anymore.”

Mom ended up doing a lot of “thinking” over that summer while I was at Wawa, with the help of a twenty-nine-year-old tennis instructor. The affair ended whatever meager efforts my father might have been making toward reconciliation and instead earned his wrath. They’ve been officially divorced for twelve years now. As much as I dreaded the inevitability at the onset, as much as I despised the both of them for their roles in tearing apart our family, by the time the ink was drying on the legal paperwork of the ugly, high-profile divorce, what I felt more than anything was relief that they’d finally go their separate ways, until the wounds healed and civility might arise. Maybe even friendship.

I’ve long since let go of that delusion.

The last time my parents were in the same room was five years ago, at Rhett’s wedding at Naka Island in Thailand. It took months of me needling to convince my father to make the trip, a seeming victory that turned into a living nightmare when he arrived at the hotel with a stunning twenty-eight-year-old model who he’d met at a fund-raiser just weeks before. Clearly a woman who served only one purpose there. Well, two, if my father’s intent was to burrow deep under my mother’s fifty-two-year-old skin. And, boy, did he ever, if her toast, delivered after too many glasses of Cristal and with at least a dozen not-so-subtle jabs thrown his way, was any indication. Poor Lawan got a good glimpse of the family she’d married into and an even better understanding of why my brother chose to stay on the other side of the world for as long as he had.

The server comes to clear our plates and deliver the tab, which Rhett grabs before I have a chance to even reach for it. “I’m so glad we did this, Pipes.”

“So am I. You know, you’re the only one I can talk to frankly, about anything,” I murmur. “You never judge.”

“I’m a huge stoner, remember? Stoners don’t judge.” He winks. “What are you going to do about this security guard?”

I sigh heavily. “I don’t know, but I have to do something and soon. Like, tomorrow.” I can’t continue on like this, my mind muddled with the past. Otherwise I’m going to start deserving whatever belittling nicknames Tripp wants to label me with. “Any advice?”

He grins. “You’re Piper Fucking Calloway.”




Arriving to work at seven A.M. has its advantages.

Namely a quiet lobby, ripe for confrontation.

“I’m Piper Calloway . . . I’m Piper Calloway . . .” I mutter under my breath as I march toward the security desk, my heels clicking with purpose, my chin held high as I stare straight ahead.

“Morning, Miss Calloway,” Gus croons. “How’s my boy Rhett doing?”

I clear the sudden nervousness from my throat. “He’s good. He asked that I pass along his greetings.”

Gus’s faces splits with a wide grin. “I hope he makes it in here again one day. It’s been a long time. He was still in college, the last time I saw him.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know.” I shift my focus to Kyle, who’s leaning back in his chair, watching the exchange through curious eyes. “Good morning, Kyle.”

“Good morning, Miss Callow—”

“Please meet me on the eleventh floor, in conference room C, at ten A.M.”

Something unreadable flashes in his eyes—resignation, maybe?—and there’s a few seconds’ pause before his golden gaze shifts to Gus. “Is that okay?”

“No problems here.” Gus holds his hands up. “What the boss lady says, we do. Gladly.”

Kyle sighs heavily and then nods once. “Okay,” he mumbles, reluctance in his tone. “I’ll see you later.”

“Ten A.M. sharp. Eleven C,” I repeat. “You know where it is; you’ve been pacing past it enough times.” With that, I wave my badge and head to my office, trying to ignore the rush of nerves churning in my stomach.

Mark’s eyes are on me the second I step into the executive wing, his brows raised in curiosity. No doubt because of the email I sent him last night, asking that he be in as early as possible, seven A.M. at the latest. I’ve never asked that of him.

I’m not in the mood for exchanging pleasantries right now. “I need you to find out everything you can on Hank Kavanaugh from KDZ. Where he lives, who he’s married to, where he went to school, their construction projects, everything. I want to know how Tripp knows him, and every meeting they’ve had. See what Jill can tell you. On the down-low, of course.”

Mark eagerly jots down notes, his mouth working over questions he’s dying to ask but knows better than to, just yet. Finally, he dares murmur, “So you have a plan?”

“Oh, I have a plan.” I can feel the vicious and defiant smile stretch across my lips. “We’re going to lance a giant boil.”