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He swallows. “He told me he’d give me a week. I have four days left. Four days!”
“How much is this place worth?” I look around like I haven’t already taken stock of the house. “A property in this neighborhood—it has to be worth something.”
“This place isn’t exactly… mine.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re squatting.”
“I’m resourceful,” he says in lieu of admitting the truth.
“Pigheaded bastard” is the way I remember Laila describing him. “Resourceful” must’ve slipped her mind when compiling adjectives.
I gesture to the nearest chair. “Sit, Charles. Let’s have a little chat, man to man.” He tightens his grip on the poker, and I sigh. “Bring the scrap metal with you if it makes you feel better.”
He dabs the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and joins me near the window. The chair creaks when I lower myself into it, but Charles stays standing, the poker dangling loosely at his side.
“Why are you here?” he croaks. “I have more time.”
“I’ve already told you: I just want to have a little chat. Now, sit down. I won’t ask again.”
Reluctantly, he lowers himself into the chair opposite me, the poker settling between his knees. A part of me actually hopes he’ll try to use it. It would give me the excuse I need to beat him to a fucking pulp.
A beam of light catches his face and illuminates it. I take a good look at the man.
His eyes are deep and wide-set. Rough stubble coats his loose jaw and his scalp is bare in patches, though gray has only just begun to creep in at what’s left of his roots. He doesn’t share much in common with his daughter.
“You say you have four more days,” I repeat, to which he nods aggressively. “But you must have a plan. Tell me how you’re going to pay Hamlin.”
He runs his fingers along the edge of the table, his eyes darting around as he talks. “It involves some family assets.”
My fingers curl into a fist.Not yet,I urge myself.Rein it in.“I can’t imagine a man who squats in someone else’s home has property of his own somewhere.”
“You’re damn right I do!” Charles draws himself up indignantly. “And it’s a nice place! Big. Soon as I get some of this paperwork bullshit out of the way—you know the city, permits, that sort of thing—Hamlin will get his money. It’s gonna take no time at all. It’s fine.”
“And it’s yours?”
That makes him hesitate. “It… will be. Ex-wife still has?—”
“Ah. It’s your ex-wife’s.”
“For now. But she’s sick.” He grips the table with one hand, his teeth gnashing, literally chomping at the bit. “Real sick. She won’t be around for long. When she kicks it, that house is mine.”
My jaw clenches tight.Just a little bit longer. Keep him talking. He’ll dig his own grave, if you let him.“You didn’t have any children?”
He releases the table, leans away as though he’s been stung. “Err… no, we have one kid. A girl. Actually, she’s the problem.”
I raise my eyebrows. Charles seems to interpret that as encouragement because he blusters on, oblivious to the fact that I have two clenched fists in my lap.
“Marie spoiled her. Laila has no respect for me. She’s selfish and entitled. I’ve been trying to reach out for months now, and the little bitch won’t let me see her mom.” He scowls. “I deserve better than that. I did everything I could for Laila?—”
“Abandoning her was for her benefit?” I interrupt.
He recoils, frowning. “I didn’t exactly abandonher. I had to—Circumstances changed after the accident. It was complicated.”
“I suppose being a deadbeat dad always is.”
“Listen,” he stammers, “the girl is fine. According to Marie, she’s got herself knocked up and has some rich new sugar daddy to take care of her. She doesn't need the house like I do. ‘Sides, I’m her father. I deserve it.”
My lip curls with contempt. “You’re no father, Charles Barnes. You’re a fucking rat.”
