Page 78 of The Wedding Party

“Okay, honey. I’ll order the pizza in, say, half an hour?”

I sigh in resignation. “Yes, Dad. Order in thirty.”

“Got it. Extra cheese, lots of feta, and pineapple, which is disgusting, but whatever you like, honey. See you soon.” He disconnects.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

CARRIE

Upon my admission into the clinic, I have a blood draw and CT scan, and I’m handed a sample cup. I don’t need to pee, but I force the issue and soon I’m in a medical office reviewing my tests with my new doctor, Dr. Rogers. He makes me think of Mr. Rogers, from kids’ TV, but with a bowl cut and dark-rimmed glasses. Apparently, my concussion is improved and nothing else significant shows up. Dr. Rogers feels I’m medically equipped to begin my therapy.

Whatever that means.

He hands me off to Nurse Naomi, who is youngish, friendly, and quite plump and sweet. Plump sounds insulting, but it’s not. Unlike me, Naomi is comfortable in her own pale skin, so much so that she is radiant, glowing from the inside out. “This,” she says, pausing at a fancy, glossed-over glass door, “is your private suite.”

The next thing I know, I’m standing in what amounts to a luxury hotel room, complete with silk sheets, a fireplace, and a mountain view. “Your bags are in the closet, which is a full walk-in,” she informs me. “Your therapy won’t start until tomorrow, so just enjoy looking around and resting for the rest of the day. We encourage you to view the pool, the sauna, the gym, and tennis court, but not indulge until after your next CT scan.” She motions me back to the door. “Let’s go look around.”

I’m given the grand tour, meeting numerous “guests” along the way.

The facilities are high-quality luxury, and there are even shops and a café, where the nurse leaves me to enjoy a decaf coffee, as no stimulants are allowed, and a delicious variety of macarons. I order to go and return to my room. Sitting down next to the gas fireplace, which is now casting flames of warmth on the room and me, I sip my coffee and decide I don’t belong here.

I don’t deserve this place.

Chapter Seventy

ANDI

I check in with Marcus on the search of Carrie and Oliver’s home on my way to my father’s Cherry Creek home, and there’s not much to report, aside from Ms. Littleton giving him a hard time. At least, not at first glance. We’ll see when all the evidence is collected. As for Carrie’s parents, I’d like to talk to them, but I’ll wait until Ms. Littleton isn’t around. About the time I pull up to my father’s house, Aiden calls. “No red ribbon in Carrie’s work locker.”

“Damn,” I murmur. “Lana saw it there. Carrie must have moved it before the trip.”

“Where are you at? You want me to pick up a pizza and we can talk about the case?”

“I’m pulling up to my father’s place now. Come over.”

“Your father hates me.”

“He doesn’t. Come over.”

There are voices in the background and he says, “I have something for you. I’ll be there.”

He hangs up.

I park in my father’s driveway, grab my bag that holds my MacBook and field notes, and head for the door. The moment I ring the bell, my father—in his standard jeans and a snug T-shirt with exposed tattooed arms—is flinging open the door. He really doesn’t look his age, which I think has to do with his perfect, thick brown hair, which he colors. I haven’t actually asked if he does, but of course he colors it. He’s too old not to have some gray.

“Daughter!” he exclaims. “Come in out of the cold. We both know you hate the cold.”

Yeah, well, there is truth in his words, but mostly because he always kept the house so damn brisk. I hurry inside and he holds out his arms. “Give the pops a hug.”

I oblige. I mean, I love my dad. I just don’t always love his ways. But he’s also a towering force that is both big and strong, and he bear-hugs me. And I mean really bear-hugs me, to the point of me being about two seconds from needing resuscitation before he lets me go. “Get rid of the coat. It makes me feel like you aren’t staying.”

Obligingly, I slide out of my coat, hanging it on the coatrack by the door that is steel with a cool design if not for a huge Texas Star on top. I know. It’s weird. And he doesn’t even like Texas. He says it’s too hot, but he won it at some arm-wrestling competition, and he’s big on showing off his prizes.

He gives me a once-over. “You put on weight.”

“Are you serious right now?” I demand. “You do know you aren’t supposed to say that to a woman, right? And especially not before pizza.”

“It looks good on you, Sugar Bear. Eat the pizza.”