Page 4 of Pocketful of You

"Powerful or dangerous?" I foolishly challenged.

"What's one without the other?" was his emotionless response.

"Does Mr. Capaldi know what you did to his son?" I asked, sniffling through my tears. "Was he in on it, too?"

My father gave me a'how stupid do you think I am'look. "Of course not," he growled. "Christopher was his heir. He was as precious to him as you are to me."

"I'm only precious to you because you need me for something," I cried out, cheeks burning from my scorching hot tears. "You didn’t want me to die when I fell from the tree because you need me alive." I knew I was right. It was all coming full circle in my mind, but crucial pieces were still missing. Hard as I tried, I couldn't see the full picture yet. Terrifying as it was to face up to, I knew I had to. Something very bad was happening and my father was at the helm. "Admit it; you were relieved that I was okay, not because you love me, but because youneedme for something!"

"Do you want full disclosure?" he asked then, giving me a peculiar look. "You won't like what you hear."

Did I?Jesus, I didn’t know. Swallowing deeply, I forced myself to be brave. "Just tell me."

"Iama powerful man, Ramona. Richer than most men can only dream of being in a thousand lifetimes." Pulling out his cellphone, my father tapped on the screen, his tone of voice matching the emotionless expression etched on his face as he spoke. "However, the majority of my wealth was amassed in what many would perceive as unscrupulous activities."

"What k-kind of activities?" I dared to ask, heart hammering violently in my chest.

"Every kind you can imagine and more," he replied coldly. When my jaw remained hanging open in shock, Dad shook his head in resignation. "Not very perceptive, are you, sweet pea?"

"Don’t call me that," I choked out, once again yanking on the locked door in vain. "You don’t get to kill Chris, shoot Sketch, kidnap me, announce you're a criminal, and then call me yoursweet pea." Sniffling, I blinked away my tears, fingers still fruitlessly searching for an exit from this world that I knew in my heart didn’t exist. "Let me go, Dad. Please…please just let me out of the car."

"I can't do that, Ramona," he replied calmly.

"Why not?" I cried, frantic now. "Why can't you just let meleave? I won't tell anyone what you did. I just…just let me go, Dad!"

"A long time ago, someone took something that was of great importance to me," my father announced, sounding nothing like the man who'd raised me. "Something I cared very deeply for, and you, my littlesweet pea, are the key to getting it back." A small laugh escaped him then. "Why do you think I kept you alive all these years? Agirl, no less."

"How can you say that?" I flinched, his words cutting me deep. "I'm yourdaughter."

"Exactly," he agreed, deadpan. "You are my daughter. And as my daughter, you have a duty to your family."

"The trade off," I breathed, putting two and two together and coming up with a big, fatfour.

"The trade-off," he agreed with a nod.

"I'm part of the trade-off."

"No," he replied. "Youarethe trade off."

"Oh my god." My whole life had been one lie after another. I wasn't safe. I needed to get out of here and away from him.Oh god…"Take me back to him." My voice cracked, my pain spilling out. "Please, Daddy, just take me back to –"

"Holden," my father filled in mockingly. "With any luck, he'll be dead by now. If not now, then soon enough."

"No," I cried out hoarsely, furiously shaking my head, as the car we were driving in picked up speed. "Don’t say that. Please don’t say that –"

"Quit the incessant wailing, Ramona," Dad barked. "It won't change a thing. This is the way it is. The way it has to be."

My breath hitched in my throat. "Please don’t trade me, Daddy."

With a reluctant sigh, Dad slid his phone back in his pocket and turned to face me. "You really should have stayed at Tully House, Ramona." His tone was gentler now, with a hint of sympathy, and I hated it. "The transition after the trade would have been so much easier with a little sedation."

"Transition towhat?" I croaked out, fearing the answer, but knowing that I needed to be prepared. "What's going to happen to me?" Nothing good was coming.

My dad turned his head toward me and arched a brow, like he couldn’t believe I was asking such a stupid question. And maybe itwasstupid, but I was clinging tightly on to denial, because acceptance of this fucked up reality wasn’t an option.

"I just want Sketch," I sobbed, curling my arms around myself protectively. "Please. Just take me back to Sketch."

"That won't be happening."

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