Page 12 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He’s got a killer smile, one I rarely see, but when he throws it at me as I board the jet, I have to catch my breath. Older men don’t do it for me in general, but Gibson doesnotlook his age. He’s all health and vitality, muscles and good hair. And that smile—it makes him almost relatable.

Because I’m awkward, and my mouth always moves before my brain does, I ask, “How do I look?”

“Great,” he says, gesturing to the seat opposite his. Someone already took my bag, so I’m unencumbered as I sit, my phone clutched tightly in my hand.

I blurt out another random question. “So, what do you wanna do for the next eight hours?”

He leans back in his seat, large hands sliding down enormous thighs to smooth his casual navy slacks, his smile still on highwattage. “Whatever you’d like. Talk, take a nap, solve world peace.”

“I don’t know about world peace, and I just woke up, but I could talk.”

“No pressure. If you’d rather enjoy the trip in privacy, I can make myself scarce.”

Like I’d ever ask him to do that. It’s his jet. “Not at all, but don’t feel pressured to talk to me, either.”

“We do have a few things to go over, but it won’t take long.”

I glance around, taking in the luxury aircraft. It’s the kind of place I never thought I’d find myself, and with Gibson of all people? Surreal.

When my father returned to civilian life with a wife who spoke five words of English, he settled in New York. I don’t know if his wife used him for the green card or what, but she left him pretty quick. Years and two more divorces later, he got sick and came back to Pennsylvania to live with his parents. When he found out I was planning to move to New York, the last, good thing he ever did for me was reintroduce me to Gibson who hired me without an interview.

My father died when I was twenty-one after a hard fought battle with testicular cancer, which makes me overly preoccupied with my own set of balls. So far, so good, though.

“I have a few things I want to get out of the way before we get into any of the business stuff,” I say.

He nods for me to go ahead.

“My dad always called you his best friend. Was that true for you?”

Gibson’s jaw ticks as he regards me. “In high school, I’d say yes. But not once he was in New York. We weren’t strangers or anything, but I had my hands full with Marianne and the business.”

“He worked for you too, though, didn’t he?”

“As a building inspector. He had his own friends—his own life. We grew apart, but we stayed in touch.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“I visited him in the hospital. A few days before he passed.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah?”

Gibson nods.

“What was that like?”

“Sad,” he sighs. “Did you not see him?”

“No one told me it was that close to the end. I like to think I would have come, but I don’t really know.”

“Full disclosure,” Gibson says. “He did ask me to look out for you.”

“Ah.” I stare down at my phone.

“So, how’ve I done?”

I get the sense he’s trying to be funny, and I manage a half-grin. “You’ve kept a roof over my head—kept me fed. It’s a little weird. Knowing that.”

“I felt like it needed to be said. To get it out of the way.”

---