Page 79 of The Wedding Party

“It’s like me saying your muscles look soft.”

“My muscles are never soft. I know that. And you should know when you look good.”

I’m officially lectured about self-confidence. Thank you, Dad. That’s one thing people don’t get about Eddie Castle. He really could slam his fist into a man while helping me with an algebra problem on the phone. That happened. More than once. I learned to tune out the background noise. He’s actually very good at algebra.

He motions me toward a hall and starts walking down the corridor before me.

My father’s massive home is far more than a man cave. It’s a fancy seven-thousand-square-foot house with a media room and full gym. Vigilante work—I mean, PI work—serves him well.

He cuts left, as do I, into his fancy chef’s kitchen with a giant island. My father doesn’t cook. He barbecues, but somehow his fridge is always filled with homemade food. People bring him gifts. It’s a crazy thing that is hard to explain. They either want to please him, bribe him, or thank him, and everyone knows Eddie Castle likes to eat.

Like father like daughter, thus the weight gain, I guess. I didn’t actually think I’d put on weight, but I suppose I now have to step on a scale.

I claim the seat at the end of the island while my father calls out, “Whit!” at the top of his lungs, before grabbing a beer from the fridge, popping the top off, and setting it in front of me. “He’s working out. I really love that you have all of us calling him Whit, like dimwit.” He waggles a finger at me. “You’re a chip off the ole block.”

“Considering you like Danielle Littleton, I object to that comparison.”

“Enjoying her is not the same as liking her,” he corrects.

“Oh God.” I hold up a hand. “No more talk like that.” I chug back my beer.

Whit walks into the room. “There she is. Agent Castle, who can’t stay away from work any more than I can but claims I’m wrong for working.” He settles on the stool to my right.

“I didn’t look for this,” I say. “A man was stabbed fifty times at the party.”

“I didn’t look for my case, either. Get this.” He pauses as my father hands him a beer, and he tips it back for a long swallow before he says, “My suicide cases tie back to the Spider Man.”

I frown. “How?”

“They both have family with prior victims.”

“Really?” I ask. “Okay, that’s weird.”

The doorbell rings and my father eyes his porch camera on his phone. “It’s Jesús,” he says, hitting the speaker. “It’s unlocked, but don’t come in unless you have my enchiladas.”

Jesús is a detective at the Denver PD. I don’t even ask what this is all about. I focus on Whit. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Jesse Waller, who we thought might be a Spider Man protégé, really was just that. I’m watching him.”

“Just don’t go turning him into a punching bag.”

He smirks. “I’ll try.”

A fit, dark-haired man enters the kitchen. “What’s up, Jesús,” Whit greets.

Jesús grimaces. “Just paying my debt.” He nods at me. “Hi there, Andi.”

“Please tell me you didn’t arm-wrestle him.” Jesús is a great detective in excellent physical condition, and a good ten years younger than my father, but my dad is six three and 225. Jesús is more like five ten and 170.

He scoffs, and follows it up with pure bravado. “I wasn’t that stupid.”

“You bet with him, didn’t you.”

“Fuck yeah.” He rests the pan in his hands on the opposite side of the island. “On Dancing with the Stars of all things. My wife watches it. She was sure she knew who would win this season. I didn’t think he really did, so she made his damn enchiladas, but did she make me any? No. No enchiladas for me.”

“You can have some now.” The doorbell rings. “That will be the pizza. Pizza and enchiladas. I love it.”

A few minutes later, my father is sitting to my left, and we’re all stuffing our faces with pizza and enchiladas, talking about my case. “Of course this Carrie chick did it,” Jesús says.