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I squeeze him again. “Dad, listen to me. You and I need to sit down and have a talk about Rosewood, about The Beast. I need to know what’s really happening…”
He releases a heavy sigh and backs away from me, rubbing his hand over his thinning head of hair, and I notice how deep the lines have grown on his face over the last few weeks since I’ve been gone.
The stress of the situation is getting to him.
Always so strong and stoic, this is the most unhinged I’ve ever seen him, and I can already see him coming up with an excuse not to have this conversation.
I set down my bag, packed with a few days’ worth of clothes and other items I’ll need, then point toward the living room at the back of the house. “You are going to pour us a drink, and then you and I are going to sit down and we’re going to talk about Rosewood.”
He releases a heavy sigh, one full of acquiescence, and nods.
Thank God he is not going to fight me on this.
It’s been hard enough trying to get it out of Weston, and I don’t want to argue with Dad.
Not about this.
Not about anything.
All I want is answers, the truth.
So that, maybe, just maybe, I might be able to get him out of whatever quagmire he’s gotten himself into without any bloodshed on either side.
He motions for me to follow him into the house.
I kick off my shoes and walk down the same hallway I have for thirty years, the eerie quiet surrounding us raising goosebumps on my skin. “Where is everyone?”
Normally, at this time of day, Toni, our housekeeper, would be buzzing around cleaning, making lunch and starting on her dinner plans, chastising Dad for putting his feet up on his desk or the coffee table. Evan, our gardener, would be outside somewhere, trimming the perfectly manicured hedges or moving the expansive lawn Dad prides himself on so much. But none of those normal sounds or smells fill the air.
Dad swallows thickly, then walks over to the bar in the living room and pours two bourbons, turning back to me and handing me one. “I let Toni and the rest of the staff go.”
“You what?”
His hand tightens around his glass, knuckles whitening. “I didn’t want them here. I didn’t want them to get caught up in any potential crossfire.”
“Crossfire? Dad, what the hell? I’ve been trying to get Weston to tell me what’s going on, but—”
He narrows his eyes on me, the green that matches that of my own darkening slightly. “You’re on a first-name basis with The Beast now? What the hell is going on up there, Callista?”
Shit.
I turn away from him and walk to the window, staring out at the mountains in the distance. The same view I grew up looking at my entire life now looks completely different. One peak holds memories of that man, of what he does to me—mind, body, and soul.
My hand shakes as I raise my glass to my lips and take a long sip of the spicy liquor. It burns going down my throat and settles in my stomach, warming me on the inside while I still feel the chill of the air on Barker Mountain on my skin as if I were still up there.
“This isn’t about Weston, Dad. This is about you. Tell me what you did. You wouldn’t tell me before I went up there, but now, I think I deserve to know.”
Not to mention need to if I have any chance of helping him.
Another bone-weary sigh falls from his lips, and he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, then settles into the oversized leather chair he always favors directly in front of the fireplace. “It was stupid…”
“What was stupid?”
His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “I should have done my research. I shouldn’t have gone after them.”
“Gone after who?”
Between Weston and Dad, all this cryptic talk is going to drive me to violence.
