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They'd been discussing Darby and she'd clammed up, not interested in rehashing anything her father had done or said when Nick visited him.
But something Nick said at the time had registered and made her think. Nick said Darby was a nasty old coot but her father must love her enough to give her money to start a new life in London.
In that moment, the emotional blinkers blinding her lifted a fraction. Considering why she'd fled home and headed for the opposite side of the world to escape, when she’d learned the truth recently about Darby funding her lifestyle, she'd assumed her father had given her the money to control as always.
Never once had she contemplated any other reason. But the more she thought about it, the more it didn't make sense.
If Darby truly hated her back then as she believed, why would he cushion her? Why not see her fail and hope she'd come running home rather than give her money to prop her up?
She had to know why he'd done it.
Clenching and unclenching her hands, she rolled her shoulders, and stretched her neck from side to side like a prize fighter about to enter a boxing ring.
After a few deep breaths, she knocked and entered Darby’s room, striding across to the bed where her father lay.
He looked so old and tired she felt a sudden rush of pity, until his ferocious glare settled on her and she remembered all the awful things he’d done and said.
‘I thought I told you to—'
'Why did you do it, Dad?'
His upper lip curled. 'Trust Mancini to tell you about our bargain—‘
'Not that. The money. Why did you give me that money and pretend it was Mum's?'
She'd never seen her dad anything but aloof, cold, and angry after her mother left, hadn't seen him blink when the news of her death had reached them, and for the first time in forever she saw uncertainty cloud his eyes, contorting his expression into confusion.
He didn't respond and his gnarled hands wrung beneath the bedcovers.
'Dad? Tell me. You owe me that much.'
She expected him to say, 'I owe you nothing' in a classic gruff Darby response, so she almost keeled over when he pushed into sitting and beckoned her closer.
'The only reason I let you go to Brisbane for that vacation is because I couldn't stand the sight of you cowering anymore.' He stared at the coverlet, his frown deepening. 'Then when you didn't come back and sent that email that you were in London and weren't coming back, I was worried.'
'You'd have to care to worry,' she said, hating the flare of hope she'd finally get some answers to questions that had plagued her for years.
'I cared.' His shocking declaration came out a whisper and she almost slapped her ears to ensure she'd heard right.
'You call abusing me caring? All those put-downs and shoves and—' She inhaled and exhaled several times, trying to keep a check on her temper. A futile effort, as years of resentment bubbled up. 'You were my dad, you should've loved me. Instead, you were a monster. What did I do wrong? Why did you treat me like that? Tell me, damn you!'
To her amazement, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes and trickled down his wrinkled cheeks unchecked, the sorrow in his gaze wrenching a soul-deep response she didn't want to acknowledge.
He opened his mouth, closed it, before shaking his head. 'None of it was your fault.'
His low groan of pain had her darting an anxious glance at the heart-monitor machine but the blood-pressure numbers weren't rising and the spiky lines remained unchanged.
'I was a monster. What I did was unforgivable.'
'Then why?'
He took a deep breath and knuckled his eyes before fixing them on her.
'Because looking at you was like looking at the young version of your mother I fell in love with. Because seeing you every day reminded me of what she'd been like and what she'd become when she ran out and got herself killed. Because it hurt right here—' he thumped his heart and this time the machine gave an alarming beep '—every time I looked at you and wished you were her.'
She had her answers but they did little to erase the years of bitterness as she belatedly realised nothing he could say or do would make up for what he'd put her through.
His trembling hand snaked towards her, palm up, begging. She stared at it, expecting to feel repulsed or worse, fearful, remembering the last time he'd extended the same hand had been to hit her.
