Page 103 of What's Left of Us

It’s quickly clear to me that it’s not me he cares about, but his image. “So, what? You want me to let you back into my life after you shut me out? Threatened me? Threatened Lincoln? Made our lives more complicated than they already were? Those were allyourchoices. I made the one best for me. My husband is a good man. He works hard for us. We’re both building a future we can be proud of. It doesn’t matter what people think anymore.”

“It does to me. To your mother.”

“Leani is not my mother.”

“I’m not speaking of my second wife,” he spits, eyes narrowed as they land on me. If looks could kill, I’d be writhing on the ground.

Swallowing, I clench my fists. “How can anything matter to a woman who is dead?” I question, feeling my doubt wrap itself around my heart.

My father’s expression tightens, his eyes draining of whatever anger that he felt before, and in its place…irrevocable sadness. The same kind I saw at her funeral when people were sharing their condolences one measly handshake at a time.

“Look at you,” I whisper, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re so worried about what people think of me, but I don’t even recognize you anymore. Do you sleep? Eat?”

He doesn’t answer any of those questions.

“Your mother,” he says, voice cracking, “was trying to do everything she could to make sure your life was secure. That you werehappy. She cared more about you and your future than she did herself, which is why she’s dead.”

He says so much without saying anything at all. “You said before not to be naive about how she died, so why don’t you tell me the truth for once? I can handle it.”

His laugh is short, cold, and abrupt. “You do not have what it takes to handle the truth. That’s why your husband doesn’t tell it to you. Our world is built on a foundation of lies and deception. You’re guilty of it as much as I am.”

What have I ever lied about? “That’s not a world I want to live in then.”

“Do you know the effort the cop is putting into taking me down? How much energy he’s spending behind your back on all of those late nights at work and away from you just to meddle in business that isn’t his to know?”

When I heard Lincoln talk about his suspicions surrounding my father, I didn’t want to believe it. But all of those late nights at work, of the phone calls he takes in different rooms when he’s home, makes me wonder what it is he’s found out that only he, Matt Conklin, and my father seem to know.

“You don’t question me,” my father says, the sadness masked by cool indifference, “because you know I’m right. What kind of marriage is shaped by lies and deceit? That’s all yours ever was and ever will be. Your mother would be ashamed.”

Bringing my mother into it cuts deep. “And would my marriage to Luca Carbone have been any different? Would it be shaped with honesty and transparency? You said that’s notwhat our world is built on. We both know the Carbones don’t have a clean reputation. Maybe my choice is less about choosing someone who would lie to me and picking the person with a good reason to lie in the first place.”

It’s the only justification I can let myself have to separate Lincoln’s actions from my father’s—from Luca’s.

He’s not the same as them. He’s…good.

“And what do you think I’ve been doing this whole time? I have done nothing but protect you, Georgia. I have done everything in my power to ensure you don’t get taken from me likeher. She refused their wishes once and look where she is.”

For the first time ever, I see genuine fear in his eyes. It’s faint, half-hidden behind the hideous mask he wears to seem indifferent, but visible only if you look close enough.

“I do not want to bury you too.”

“Who are you so afraid of?” I ask, my voice far gentler than it had been before.

He looks away, his jaw moving as his hands tighten and untighten by his sides. In a grave voice, he says, “That is a list far too long to share, Georgia.”

Chills run down my spine.

Is there any truth to what Lincoln and Conklin said? “Daddy,” I whisper.

His eyes slowly find mine.

“Are you…” The words get trapped in my throat, so I clear it and try again as nerves bubble under my skin. “Are you working with the—”

“Do not,” my father cuts me off, “ask questions that you do not want the answers to.”

It’s a nonanswer that tells me enough.

“But why?”

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