Page 80 of Thorns of Malice

She doesn't. She made it clear.

She does.

She didn't sleep with Avery or Dyer. The only people she slept with were Bobby and Lilly during the foursome when Bobby drugged her.

And I pressured her to take part in that.

That's on me.

How could I have been so misinformed and not even given her a chance to explain?

Why did I believe them and not her?

I beat myself up over and over, staring at my baby girl. The memories of waking up next to her and how alive I felt just being with her pummel me, and I regret ever putting her in the game.

She never belonged in it.

I reach for my phone and pull up my search engine, typing inJohn Ford, Georgia.

Several hits pop up, but then I see a death notice.

My chest tightens, and I click on it.

I didn't know Ivy's father had died. Hank should have found that out, and I wonder how he missed such important information.

I read the obituary. It doesn't say much other than John was a botanist, his daughter was Ivy, and where the funeral services were being held.

I reread it several times and then search his name some more. I'm unsure what I'm looking for, but there isn't anything else about him.

It doesn't surprise me. John Ford was an average person, just like most people.

In my world of getting things done, that was his fault. He had the ability in his hands. All of the things he created were in his notebook, sitting there doing nothing.

For a man like me, who knows how to create things and take opportunities to make the most of them, I can't figure out why anyone wouldn't do the same. John was smart and talented. It's unfathomable to me why he would just sit on things instead of making his life better, especially when he had Ivy to provide for.

The same anger I felt back then reappears. He should have done better for her. Then, my guilt shifts back to me.

Ishould have done better for her.

I vow for the millionth time that Iwilldo better for Ivy, and somehow, I'll figure out how to make her forgive me.

She thinks I killed her dad.

The air in my lungs turns stale, thickening with every breath. I stare at her, wondering how I'll ever get her to forgive me if that's what she really believes.

I tap my finger on the armchair, wondering over and over what to do. Then I pick up my phone again, pull up my text messages, scroll down, and click on Hank's name.

Me: I need the medical records and coroner's report for John Ford.

Hank: He's dead?

Me: Yeah. I'm not sure how you missed that.

Hank: You didn't tell me to find information about him. You said you wanted everything on her.

Me: Since when are you literal?

Hank: You don't like it when I go off track.

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