Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(93)

She glanced at the clock. “How can I be this tired? My biggest feat for the day was walking to the bathroom a couple of times.”

“Don’t push yourself,” he said. “The nurse is coming at three. If she gives you the all-clear, you can take a shower.”

“Oh my God. I want to wash my hair more than anything right now.”

“Then you should rest up.” Conor stood. “How about some lunch?”

Louisa sniffed. Her stomach rumbled with the first twinges of hunger since she’d been shot. “What’s that smell?”

“I put chicken and vegetables in the slow cooker this morning.”

“I have a slow cooker?”

“No. I borrowed it from Jayne.” Conor laughed. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Could I have a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“Coming right up.” He handed her the remote control. The phone in the kitchen rang as he walked out. “I’ll get it.”

She flipped channels and stroked the dog’s head. Her gaze drifted to the flower arrangements on the dresser and tables. The yellow-and-white daisy display on the nightstand was from April. Dr. Cusack had sent a pastel spray of roses and carnations. There were several more from her museum coworkers, plus flowers from Conor’s family and Damian. She had lived in Philadelphia for just a few months, but she’d already made a home here.

“Do you like this apartment?” she called to Conor.

Conor came through the doorway with a plate in his hand. He gave the bank of windows overlooking Rittenhouse Square a pointed look. “What’s not to like?”

“I’m thinking about buying it.”

“Just don’t tell me what it costs.” He set her lunch on the nightstand, took her arms, and eased her more upright. “My head might explode.”

“Deal.” After a week of liquids and hospital food, the grilled cheese was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

At the sound of the doorbell, Conor ducked out of the room again. More flowers?

Conor poked his head in. “Louisa, do you feel up to some company?”

She swept an automatic hand over her limp hair. Dry shampoo was no substitute for the real thing.

“You look beautiful.” Conor stepped aside.

Louisa gasped at the figure in the doorway. Her father wore the usual: beat-up work boots, a ragged sweater, and jeans, his face prematurely lined from depression and alcohol. Under a sloppy, unkempt mop of gray hair, green eyes stared at her. They were the same shade as her own, the one physical trait he’d passed on to her. No one would accuse Ward Hancock of being a slave to fashion. She let out her breath with a rush of pain and put a hand over the thick wad of bandages under her sweatshirt.

Conor looked over her dad’s shoulder. “You all right?”

She nodded.

He walked to the bed and carefully lifted Kirra in his arms. “I’ll take the dog for a limp around the park.” He planted a kiss on her lips before leaving the room. After the door closed behind Conor and Kirra, her father walked to the side of the bed. He pulled Conor’s chair closer and sat down hard. His gaze raked over her. Angry lines tightened around his mouth.

“I missed you,” she said.

His mouth opened and closed. A line furrowed between his brows as if he were searching for words. “I can’t believe my daughter was shot and didn’t call me.” His voice was steady with no trace of a slur. Was he sober?

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Guilt swamped Louisa.

“No. It’s not your fault.” Leaning forward, he took her hands between his and stared down at them. “The fault is all mine. I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You haven’t—”

“Louisa, when your mother died, I didn’t handle it well. I didn’t handle it at all. I used my work and scotch to put the whole situation out of my head. I didn’t want to think about it. About her. About living without her for the next fifty years. The rest of my life felt so . . . long.” He sighed. “Every time I looked at you, I saw her. You made me remember, and I was too much of a coward to face it.”

A tear rolled down Louisa’s cheek. Her throat clogged with the salt of sorrow. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” He glanced up at her, his eyes moist.

She should have called him. “How did you find out?”

“Conor called me right after you got out of surgery last week. I almost flew here that day, but I wanted to clear up a few things first.”

Yes, work. Always his number-one priority. Disappointment pressed on Louisa’s chest, as painful as her stitches. At least her gunshot wound was healing. “I’m sorry to drag you back to the States. I know you love Stockholm.”

His head snapped up. “Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I took a leave of absence.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m staying.” His smile was sad. “I’ve been a terrible father for a long time. I can’t make it up to you. That’s impossible. But I can do better. I sure as hell can’t do worse.” He looked away. “I’m not being entirely honest. I bottomed out last spring. Seeing you so sad . . .” He looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. “Anyway, instead of staying here and helping you, I rushed back to Sweden. I drank for a week straight. I showed up to a lecture drunk. The dean pulled me aside and suggested a leave of absence. I haven’t worked in three months.”