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I nodded. Of course I had. I wasn’t about to pollute my taste buds with something mediocre from a chain franchise.
“So we’re not heading to Starbucks, then?” he teased.
“Nope.” I gave him a one-finger salute and he smirked.
“You’re such a coffee snob.”
“Good coffee is the drink of the Gods. If you had evolved, you’d understand that.”
I ignored his eye roll and grabbed my phone and a jacket. It was sunny out, but chilly. Since we had no idea how much longer Stella would take, I wasn’t about to sit shivering for hours.
The coffee shop I’d found on Google was a short walk from the hotel, so it took less than five minutes to get there. Harley sat at a table outside while I placed our order.
One quick sip told me I’d made the right choice. This was artisan coffee at its finest, ripe with complex flavors. I could taste chocolate with hints of pineapple. Fucking delicious.
Meanwhile, Harley sipped his cappuccino with hazelnut creamer and fifty sugars. It was disgusting. How did he even taste the coffee? He’d have been better off just drinking a sugar syrup solution.
The butter mochi square I added to the order was delicious too. Harley eyed it but thought better of complaining I’d not bought him one. If he was hungry, he could pick up his own snacks. Although, after the crap he’d consumed at breakfast earlier, he probably wasn’t hungry.
I’d bring Stella here in the morning, or later if she was craving some caffeine. I doubted any coffee she might have been unlucky enough to buy from a machine at MCC was worth drinking.
Chapter 60
Stella
“Why?”
The question had been on my mind since Dad’s arrest. I couldn’t understand his motivation. Dad had never been a greedy man. He enjoyed the trappings of his success, yes, but he wasn’t obsessed with money. My father had always gone to great lengths to make sure I understood right from wrong. I’d never been allowed to take our significant wealth and privilege for granted. Every Christmas, he’d taken me with him to spend a morning helping out at a soup kitchen, serving Christmas dinner to the homeless. Whereas celebs did this kind of thing as a PR exercise, Dad was there to give something back, and to make sure I understood how easily people ended up with nothing.
Nobody knew who he was. He just wanted to help people, like everyone else who volunteered there.
Conning investors out of their life savings made no sense. It wasn’t the man I knew. There had to be something he wasn’t telling me.
“I can’t talk about the case,” he said in a low voice. “Not in here.” His eyes slid sideways for a moment before bouncing back to me. A tall, heavyset guy with gang tattoos inked around his neck sat at the next table, talking to a scrawny woman. Dad’s fingers tapped the Formica table. I could sense the tension in his body, the way he kept glancing at the man.
I vibrated with frustration. What was the point in me being here? I thought he wanted to talk to me. I got that this room wasn’t private, but surely he could tell me something!
“Are you working hard at college?”
“Yeah.” I stared at the scratches, pondering the random patterns. Dad’s taps got more rhythmic. It caught my attention above the hum of noise from conversations around the room. A pattern emerged and a synapse fired in my brain. He was trying to communicate with me using Morse code, something he’d taught me as a child.
Estella, Estella…
My eyes snapped up in surprise and he half-smiled with relief.
You are in danger.
I stared at him. What did he mean? Was this why someone tried to run us off the road?
From who?
“When are your exams?” he asked like we were having a nice normal chat.
It was hard to focus thanks to the disconnect between what he was saying and what he was tapping. I forced my brain to listen to the taps rather than the words, while still following the thread of the conversation so we didn’t attract attention.
“In a few weeks.”
Go back to college and don’t leave campus.
