Page 130 of Perfect Pitch

“Christ,” he spits out before spinning on a bare heel and storming into his living room.

I follow without being told, knowing we’re far from done.

“How long did you know?” he asks.

“How long did I know or how long did I suspect?” I ask back.

“What’s the damn difference?”

“The difference is I could speculate all I wanted based on conversations I was privy to, but until her mother gave her the truth, there was no proof.”

All the indignation leaves Beckett’s face. He scrubs his hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Christ, Paigey. I can’t believe that bastard did that to her.” His eyes narrow on me. “Did you know about that too?”

“No.”

“Then why aren’t you asking? Don’t you care?”

“Of course I do. But the person who should tell me is your daughter. Do you think I haven’t been burned in this? I almost lost her because I suspected you were her father and didn’t give her a clue,” I inform him much more calmly than I feel.

The knuckles on the fingers gripping his beer bottle turn white. “When was this?”

“Just before she and her mother came back from Texas. I haven’t seen her alone since she’s returned,” I admit.

“Do not fuck up with my little girl, Mitchell,” Beckett warns.

I gape at him. “You’ve known her for all of six seconds.”

The cagey bastard’s eyes glow with a feral heat at my words then they lose their fire. He stares down at the bottle he’s holding before he admits, “Intuitively, I’ve known who she was the moment I saw Paigey race down the stairs at Redemption. Austyn looks just like her mother but with my eyes.”

He gestures to the sofa behind him. I take the offer for what it is and sit down. “I’ve made so many mistakes—Paige, Austyn, hell, my life. I don’t know what to do.”

“I can’t help you sort that out, Beckett.”

His eyes—Austyn’s eyes—glare at me. “Can you throw me a bone? Tell me what she’s like.”

How much can I share without betraying Austyn? There’s one thing I can tell him. “Her talent might eclipse yours.”

The beginning of a smile twitches his lips. “What makes you say that?”

I give him a summary of the instruments she plays and like me, his eyes widen, and he asks, “The harp? Austyn plays the harp?”

Proudly, I inform him, “She’s sat in with the philharmonic.”

“You’re kidding?” After I shake my head, he wonders, “Maybe she does have more raw talent than me.”

“You should look up her reviews, Beckett. Get to know your daughter on common ground—through music,” I say as I stand.

His eyes bug a bit. He surges to his feet. His voice is panicked when he asks, “Wait, where are you going?”

I break it to him gently. “She needs me.”

And all the work I’ve managed in the last few minutes we’ve been talking comes undone. Beckett withers before my eyes. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Christ, what a fucking mess.”

“I wish there was something else I could do,” I tell him sincerely as I step away.

His words stop me cold. “There is.”

I face him. “What’s that?”

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