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Chapter 7
“When you said you could get tickets, you didn’t say VIP tickets,” Cornell said over his shoulder as they made their way deeper into the parking lot.
Peter shrugged. “A client owed me a favor. Next time we’ll have to bring Ali and her dad.”
Cornell laughed. “Must be a pretty big favor that guy owes you if you can make the same ask twice.” He looked down at his phone, which had died hours ago. “What’s the time?”
“Just after ten. I don’t mind taking an Uber if you need to get back. It’s been a long day for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. And it’s going to take some time to get out of this parking lot.” When they approached his Jeep and got inside, Cornell plugged his phone in and pulled into the line for the exit that was inching slowly forward. “Thanks for taking me. That was a lot of fun.”
“Thanks for letting me take you.”
Apart from a lunch or dinner here or there, an awkward, uncomfortable holiday that occasionally would explode into a fight, they hadn’t done anything together since he was a kid. A year ago, Cornell wouldn’t have believed anyone who told him that not only would he one day willingly hang out with his dad, but he would also enjoy it.
Cornell’s attention went to the repeated vibration of his phone in the console. Thinking it might be a call, he grabbed it only to realize it was just notifications—dozens of them—of missed calls and messages.
Ali. Tara about eleven times. Bobbi and John, several times each. He dialed Ali first but got no answer. An uncomfortable heat swept up the back of his neck.
“Everything alright?” Peter asked from beside him.
He pulled the phone down from his ear, scrolling through the messages.
Hi Cornell call me when you can.From John.
Where are you I’ve called sixty times. From Tara.
Please call me back it’s important. From Tara again.
Nerves began to swirl slowly in his gut. What the hell? He scrolled down to Ali’s messages.
Don’t be mad. Graham is at the house all beat up and drunk. Doesn’t look good but under control.
I’m driving him home.
The bundle of nerves exploded and threatened to burst out of him—firecrackers held in a tightly closed hand.
“Shit,” Cornell called Ali again. On the fourth unanswered ring, he hung up and tried Tara.
Peter shook his head beside him. “What’s going on?”
“Come on, come on,” Cornell said to both Tara, who wasn’t picking up, and to the drivers of the cars lined up at the exit. “Hurry the—”
“Cornell?”
Fuck, there’s something wrong. It wasn’t Tara’s normal voice which normally held a bit of a zing, a snappy tone. But the way Tara said his name was anything but sharp—she sounded afraid.
He had to swallow down the lump growing in his throat so hard it hurt. “What’s going on?”
“Where are you?”
“Where is she?”
“Cornell, where are you?” Tara repeated.
“Leaving the Cowboys’ game. Where is she, Tara?”
Peter furrowed his brow beside him. “Cornell, what’s—”
