Lie, Lie Again(52)
“Nice to meet you too.” He fished his wallet from his pocket, and Sylvia noticed the muscles contract beneath his shirt as he did. Tim Tebow had nothing on him. Of course she’d known exactly who Tebow was. “Here’s my card, just in case you ever need anyone. In accounting or for whatever. I’m your guy.”
“That’s sweet of you. Thanks.”
He turned to the elevator, and she walked slowly to her car before heading back. It was nice that Sal had offered his card. Now she had more information. He wasn’t wearing a ring. She’d noticed that when he’d held the door open for her, but he could have a girlfriend. Nonetheless, he would work as her final ally.
For a moment, she wondered what it’d feel like to be someone who could let things slide. Maybe it would be relaxing, like a warm bath in lavender-scented water. But all she knew was plunging into ice-cold water and righting injustices. Revenge had always been a close friend, but now it had become her, encompassing her entire being, thanks to Hugh. Well, she couldn’t give him all the credit, now could she? A memory flickered to the forefront of her mind.
It was her second year at college, and she was using the computer at the library, since she couldn’t afford to buy one of her own. The essay she was writing on government corruption required focus, but her mind traveled to her dad. It had been a long time since she’d thought of him, but the past few nights, he’d crept into her mind, scaring her from sleep.
She couldn’t remember the dreams. Not exactly. But memories—frightfully real memories—pushed and shoved, trying to reach the front of her mind. A tiny voice pleaded with them to go away. But they were persistent, like a desperate concertgoer who elbowed her way to the stage for a front-row opportunity.
The memory slammed into her.
They’d stopped in front of an apartment that had red graffiti on the walls. “Get in the back seat and lay down behind the seats. Don’t move until I say so. I’ll be right back.” The car door banged shut.
She did as he asked, wondering what kind of game this was. The floor mat was scratchy against her face, and it was hard to breathe in the tight little area behind the driver’s seat, but she was afraid to move her head to gulp some fresh air. The car began to quake, and men who looked like the living dead pounded on the windows and rattled the doors. She tried to disappear beneath the seat and squeezed her eyes closed, silently calling for her dad. His voice sounded from far away. Yelling and cursing. The men scattered, and her dad slammed into the driver’s seat, turning around to yell at her. “Next time you don’t hide good, I’ll let them take you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she looked at him. “I’m joking,” he said when he saw her tears. “It’s a joke, Sylvia. Just don’t fucking move next time. These are bad guys. I’m doing them a favor, and if I mess it up, they’ll kill me.”
Her own father had taken her on his drug runs.
That day in the library, she’d set aside her paper and googled him. A flurry of Mick Webbs appeared, but she kept scrolling until she landed on a link with his picture, and she opened it. Gabrielle Pine, best known for her pop hit “Carry Me,” marries Mick Webb, eleven years her senior, whom she met in rehab. The article had been two years old. Sylvia inspected the photo. There her dad was, smiling stupidly under an arch of pale-pink roses and creamy-white hydrangeas with his young wife. Sylvia had never heard of her, but after a quick search, she learned that the woman was rich. In photo after photo, she appeared in flashy designer clothing. There was really no explaining why she would go for someone like her father, except for their addiction connection. Had he told her he was a dad? A sharp pain had throttled through her, and she deleted the search. He’d been clean and sober for years, and yet he’d never bothered to look for her. It wasn’t just the drugs that had kept him away, like her mom always claimed. He just didn’t want me.
That was the day she’d decided she would never look for him again. Her protective mind had rescued her, erasing the memory of him until he was nothing more than a shadow.
She would never allow anyone to break her again. Stepping back into the elevator, she pushed the button, and it jolted up. How symbolic. There was nowhere to go but up. Hugh would not take her down. No one would.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Riki opened the door and latched it to the stop at the end of the school day. She peered outside and spotted Mrs. Trainor clad in a long black sweater that overwhelmed her slim figure. Her arms were crossed at her waist, and her posture sagged, as though the weight of the sweater, or perhaps the world, were too much. Dark sunglasses covered half her face. Riki pretended she hadn’t seen her and turned back into the classroom.
“All right, kiddos, let’s see which table will get to line up first.” The kids scrambled to straighten their pencil boxes and books, and the sound of chairs scraping the floor rang through the room. They were no longer expected to place their chairs on their desks after a student—before Riki’s time, thank goodness—got a fat lip when her chair fell off the desk. She’d heard all about the uproar that had caused. “Okay, I see the Dolphin table is sparkling clean. Thank you, Dolphins! You may line up.”
Group by group, Riki sent the students to gather their backpacks and line up near the door. Typically, Riki followed them out at the sound of the bell, but today she hung back—a watchful eye on the children, of course—but the thought of conversing with any parents caused her head to ache.