Page 85 of Wicked Brutal

Oh. That.

“Because he doesn’t think I understand,” I say. Ryan stares at me. “Dad knows I’m smart,” I explain. “School smart. Book smart. That’s different to him.”

“Different how?”

“He thinks I can memorize things. Write papers. Get good grades. But business? Politics? Money?” I shrug. “Those are real-world things.”

“Man things.” The bitterness in his voice makes me smile.

“Pretty much.”

Ryan looks down at his phone. “Hollis. Vane. Bellamy. Mercer. Ashford.”

“What?”

“Your dad thinks you can memorize things.”

“I can.”

“Yeah.” His eyes meet mine. “I think that might be his problem.”

I go still.

Ryan lifts his phone again. “Don’t try to figure out what’s important.”

“How am I supposed to know what to tell you?”

“You don’t. Tell me what you remember. We’ll figure out whether it matters afterward.”

“We?”

“Me. My dad. Arthur. The boys if we need them. Nobody does anything with it until we know what it actually is.” That’s better. Grounded.

I lean against the shelf. “Okay.”

“Think about names you’ve heard more than once.”

“There are a lot.”

“Good.”

“Why do you keep saying good when I give you terrible information?”

“Because terrible information is still information.”

I roll my eyes. Then I think. Dad’s study. Car rides. Dinner. The lake. Men standing around at parties with glasses in their hands, talking freely because the women and children nearby didn’t count.

“Carlisle,” I say.

Ryan types. “First name?”

“No idea.”

“Context?”

“Dad hates him.”

“Still talks to him?”