Page 92 of Forbidden Bond

Spotting her, she stood up, and the woman diverted to approach, about three seconds later Imogen and Strat noticed each other.

“My daughter?” Strat said. “You couldn’t give me the heads-up?”

“What do you need the heads-up for? Are you afraid of her?”

Strat adored his daughter. Despite that sentiment not always being reciprocated, Strat held true. Nothing could dent his love for his baby girl.

“Switch sides with me.” Both of them left the booth. “Immie.”

“What the hell happened to you?” Imogen reached for her dad’s bruised face, but he ducked out of the way. “What’s this about?” Strat directed his daughter to sit then slid in after her, facing the door. “Has something happened? Where’s Ford?”

She slipped in at the free side of the table. “Your brother’s fine.”

The server brought drinks and Imogen ordered too.

“Are we eating?”

“Are you hungry?” Strat asked. “Sersh hasn’t eaten breakfast.” Though she had got a shot of protein. “And I’m ignoring the smile on Scamp’s face right now.”

“I want to see Ford. If I’d known you were—Jagg’s outside, he’s been crazy protective since Ford disappeared. Is he safe?”

“Your brother hasn’t disappeared,” Strat said. “He’s working for the McDades.”

Imogen paled. “What? Since when? No offense, Sersha, but I thought my brother was free of that crap.”

“This is…” Strat lingered. “It’s special circumstances.”

“Nothing will happen to him,” she said, “you have my word.”

“Is that what you said to my dad before he got beat down?” Imogen’s concern was devoted, pained, and didn’t that just pile on the guilt. “You said he was at Hustle, but I didn’t know… Dad, why are you getting mixed up in this again?”

The man had once been free of it. Until not long ago actually. Her connection to Conn, her relationship with him, dragged her friend back in, against his will. He’d never say it, but that’s what happened. This wasn’t a path he’d chosen, it was one she’d put him on. Forced him on. Had she done the same to Lachlan?

“This was a bad idea,” she said and pushed to the end of the booth. “I’m sorry, both of you, I—”

“You’re not going fucking anywhere,” Strat said and grabbed her wrist to keep her seated. “This makes sense, what you’re doing, it’s a good idea.”

Imogen’s focus yo-yoed between them. “What’s a good idea?”

“Kinda touched actually, you do pay attention when I talk, Scamp, what d’ya know?”

“You’re really on fire with the jokes today, old man,” she said, deadpan, but gave up her escape attempt. “I’m worried about Lach.”

“Was he beaten up too? Is he working for the McDades?”

Pushing for answers on that subject hadn’t been fruitful, though she should’ve tried harder. Imogen didn’t know the truth about the superintendent, about him murdering his own father, about him being on the take.

“Lach’s not handling this well.”

“The alderman’s murder?”

“Yeah,” Strat said. “Let’s go with that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” she said, flashing a glare at Strat. “I wanted to ask if you’d noticed any difference in him.”

“Lach? I haven’t seen much of him, he’s… unhappy.”

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