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She coughs to hide a sob. “I can’t bear to think about what might have happened to you.”
“But it didn’t. I’m lying in a comfy bed, between sheets with a decadent thread count, guarded by more soldiers than, even you, can imagine. Did you get a new phone?”
“It’s a temporary number. But I don’t want to talk about phones or sheets. Don’t make light of the danger you were in.”
“I’m not,” I reply, sitting back against the headboard and pulling my knees to my chin. “Tyler Worthington. I still can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I. Such a betrayal. Your father treated him like family.”
Like the son he never had.
“How’s Dad coping?”
She sighs deeply. “At first he was spitting venom, but now, he seems almost relieved.”
“Relieved?” That’s hard to believe.
“He had an inkling something was afoot—for more than a year. Although, he couldn’t put his finger on it.”
A year? “Did you know?”
“I knew your father was out of sorts, and in the last six months he seemed to be getting progressively worse. He feared for your safety and mine. The fear seemed irrational at times—even for him. But I don’t need to tell you what he’s been like.”
As Worthington’s plot progressed so did my father’s obsession with our safety. That makes sense. It must have been torture for him sensing the danger, but not being able to identify the source.
“So you think his behavior was a response to what was happening in the inner circle, and not about his family’s killer and his cancer diagnosis?”
“I think what they did to his family weighs heavily on him, more so after the diagnosis, and I don’t regret forcing him to talk about it. But the murders only played a minor role. Worthington was the real culprit. The closer he came to killing your father,” her voice wobbles, “the more paranoid your father became.”
“I don’t think it’s called paranoia when someone’s actually trying to kill you.”
“Maybe not,” she says wistfully. “I miss you, Lexie.”
“I miss you too. When can you go home?”
“In a day or two.”
“As soon as I get the all clear, I’m coming home too.”
She pauses. “Are you seeing anyone?” Samantha Taft Clarke sneaks it in casually, in a matter-of-fact tone. It’s cheeky and not very subtle. Of course, she’s heard all about Rafael. If not from Dad, then from Daniela. But I’m happy to change the subject from traitors and sinister plots. Although I would prefer to talk about something else—anything else.
“Well, are you?” she probes when I don’t respond immediately.
I grin, imagining her pressing her lips together so she doesn’t laugh and give herself away. “I was seeing someone, but it was over so fast, you missed it.”
“Tell me about it,” she cajoles, gently.
“There’s nothing to tell. I fell for a man who’s a younger, hipper version of Dad, who I’m always pushing back against. It didn’t work out.”
“It doesn’t sound like it’s over.”
I rest my chin on my bent knees and close my eyes. “It is.”
“Is that why you decided to stay at his place instead of going to Daniela and Antonio’s?”
Someone ratted me out. Probably the same weasel who told her about the relationship in the first place.
“I’m staying in his guestroom and he’s staying at a hotel downtown. It was convenient for everyone.” I’m dismissive, but even before the words are out, I know my mother isn’t going to let it go.
