Page 50 of The Villains We Make

“Mr. Carlisle?—”

Gordon turns his head to face the male nurse. “I said out. You may return once Silas and I are finished. I’m sure I can survive that long without your care.”

“Sir—"

“Get. Out.”

The nurse bites his tongue, and I can guess the old man is not easy to work for.

“Yes, sir,” he finally says. I wait for all three of them to leave and the elevator doors to slide closed.

“Chandler?” I ask.

“He won’t be back. I am making sure of that.”

“Why is he here? Why do you let him near you, considering?”

“Ah.” He knows I know. He rolls the electronic chair into the living room, and I follow. “Get us a whiskey.”

I do. I could use one. Or three. I hand him a tumbler and take a seat across from him. The old man’s eyes follow me keenly. He’s sharp.

“He’s not your son, not by blood.”

“No.”

“And you disinherited him two years after your daughter ran away. After she died.”

I see the pain that causes him.

“You gave him your name.”

“That was a mistake that will be corrected. As to why I allow him near me, believe me if I could avoid it I would. He belongs in the ground. I should have put him there when I learned the truth. But it’s a little late for that now and, well, what do they say? Keep your enemies close.”

“You never once referred to Horatio Hart as her father.”

“Hayes. His last name is Hayes.”

“And after Claire’s death, you stopped attempting to find them.”

“I had found them by then. I never lost them again.”

“But you let them be.”

He nods and sips his whiskey.

“Why?”

“It didn’t matter anymore. She was gone. And I wasn’t sure if I could look at the girl. Not then. Not when I knew.”

“Not when you knew who her father was.”

He nods gravely. From the breast pocket of his pajama shirt, he takes out a cigarette. “Get me that lighter.” He gestures behind me.

“Is that a good idea?”

“For heaven’s sake, how much longer will not smoking this cigarette buy me?”

I shrug a shoulder, get the lighter and light his cigarette. He takes a long drag, then coughs so hard, I think he’s going to die. I take the cigarette from his hand and put it out as he closes that oxygen mask hanging from the arm of the wheelchair over his nose and mouth and draws deeply from it. A few moments later, he clears his throat and faces me.

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