Page 10 of A Touch of Dark
“Ha! At least then I could do something about it,” he snaps. “The bastard is too clever to do that, at least not outright. But…he’s not above planting rumors. Some of them may even pertain to you, and if you hear anything—anything at all—you must promise to come to me first—”
“Why?” I take a step toward him, but he hunches his shoulders away from me. “Is this about…”
His sigh is unwilling confirmation. On principle, we’ve rarely broached the topic of the Borgetta murder case, but in the tumult of information spilling through the airwaves, I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime.
The details are foggy, but I remember the gist: a woman, Emily Borgetta, daughter of a prominent politician, was brutally raped and murdered by a man with ties to organized crime. Daddy threw the book at him: life served in the cruelest prison in the state. Ten years later, a lack of evidence allowed some appeals court to not only overturn his conviction, but declare him innocent—but a few weeks before the final decision went public, the man killed himself in prison. Now, everyone in the world is a legal analyst, the most ignorant of them claiming racial bias in the original judgment. Most spectators settle for calling my father incompetent. Or evil. Whichever looks better in a headline.
After he spent nearly a lifetime on the bench, this case has become a black stain on an otherwise glowing record—and it’s killing him.
“I’m asking again: Did he threaten you?” Now doesn’t feel like the right time to mention my own log of menacing voicemails. “We could always go public. Do a news conference.”
“No.” Daddy clenches his fists so hard that his knuckles whiten. “Oh, he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. That sick bastard—” He cuts himself off and meets my gaze directly. “He’s dangerous, Juliana. Especially now. And as for a news conference… I haven’t told you before, but I’ve decided to run again, despite these disgusting allegations. I’m announcing it officially at a press conference soon, and I want you to be there. I need you to be there.”
I digest the news in silence and wind up observing my hands. They shake. Flattening them against the desk’s surface can’t disguise it.
After five long years, it’s fitting that Heyworth Thorne would choose now, of all times, to jump back into the fray and defend his name. The dread knotting in my stomach is more selfish than anything. Whenever he campaigns, his surveillance of me becomes obsessive. Not that increased patrols have ever stopped Simon before.
But no. It’s more than that. An uneasy Daddy means more questions. More covert calls to my therapist to ensure I’m complying with my sessions. The return of his surprise visits to my apartment to discreetly check that I don’t have wine stockpiled in the fridge.
He loves me.
He loves his reputation more.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” I say, sweetly uttering my expected line. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m still getting you a bodyguard.” His hardened expression warns I won’t be able to change his mind with a bat of my eyelashes. “You won’t even know he’s there. So don’t hold too big of a grudge, eh?” He props my chin against the pad of his thumb and contorts his lips into what passes for a smile. “Now what do you say we get this evening started right? Diane made your cake.”
I nod, and we exit his office. It’s only on our way through the foyer that I remember what sparked the morbid turn in our conversation in the first place.
“Damien Villa,” I start as Daddy waves off someone peeking around the corner who quickly scurries out of sight. “What does he have to do with painting?”
“He owns a gallery,” Daddy says, slowing his steps. We’re close enough to the dining room to hear the muffled commotion coming from within. Eight people I suspect. The same mixture of family, friends, and neighbors who attend every year. “The police suspect it’s how he launders a majority of his money. He’s used the prestige and other so-called legitimate business ventures to amass enough political sway to pressure my old donors.”
“Why?” I ask. “What does he have against you?”
“Don’t worry about him.” Daddy takes my hand and gives it an impatient tug. “I’ll tell you another day, sweet pea. For now, how about we make this night something to remember?”
I recognize the tremor in his voice. He’s pleading, and the scared, desperate little girl I used to be rears her ugly head.
Keeping him happy means smiling on cue.
Maintaining the façade.
Being perfect, darling, wonderful Juliana.
“Sure, Daddy.” I beam and step around him, my script at the ready. “You look wonderful, by the way. And you said Diane made cake? Oh, how considerate.”
At last, he returns my grin with one of his own, and arm in arm, we enter the dining room to shouts of “Surprise!” The biggest one of all being how my smile doesn’t slip once, even as my mental clock continuously tracks the passage of time.
Tick. Tock.
I’d kill someone with my bare hands for a glass of wine. Just one. From the good, cheap bottle tucked behind my headboard, preferably. Daddy wouldn’t approve, but hell, I’ve earned his love tonight.
Like the best daughter, I simpered and charmed and had the most “wonderful” not-birthday birthday dinner in existence.
But I’m not ready to receive my next gift.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t have the sense to request that the driver take the usual detour, so we’ve arrived at the Lariat way too soon.
