Page 155 of Unholy Obsession

I open my laptop and start pulling up airlines to get a ticket back to London.

“He’s there. In America.”

I pause, frozen. “Here?”

“They were trying some experimental treatments. He participated in a clinical trial at a research hospital in London,and now he’s in San Francisco. But between you and me, he’s desperate, and nothing is working to stop or slow the progression of the disease.”

I pause. “Is it hereditary?”

“No. Their best guess is that he got it either from something he ate or from a contaminated implement during one of the experimental cosmetic surgeries he’s gotten during one of his trips abroad during the last six months.”

I shake my head. The old man was always so goddamn vain.

Fuck. This is so much information all at once.

“I’ll get on a plane to San Francisco.”

Rotterdam sighs in relief. “That would be great. The disease affects his cognitive function. You’re all he can talk about. But he’s starting to lose it.”

I swallow hard and nod—not that Rotterdam can see it.

“Got it.”

I get the rest of the details and hang up. Then sit there long after the phone call, even though I know I need to be making arrangements. At least I’ve been practicing grief lately, though I don’t know if grief is exactly what I’ll be feeling after my father passes.

Maybe it will feel more like relief.

Maybe I’ll feel sad.

Maybe I’ll feel nothing at all.

I can’t name the emotions I’m feeling right now. There’s just a lead weight in my chest and a clench in my belly, wishing Moira was here, wishing I could hold her and bury my head against her stomach—her fingers in my hair, her whisper in my ear, telling me that everything was going to be okay.

By nightfall, I’m landing in SFO and catching an Uber to the hospital. I’m exhausted after two weeks of barely getting any sleep. My body is running on fumes. This feels like a dream. Or a nightmare.

I’m still not sure this isn’t all just a hoax—another manipulation to get me where he wants me.

He’s done worse. Far worse. To his employees. To his wives. To his children. I’ve seen firsthand the wreckage he leaves behind. He grinds people to dust beneath his polished shoes. If it were any other situation than him dying, I’d be far more wary. His gaze has landed on me once more, and when Mad Blackwood sets his sights on someone, it never ends well.

It’s chillier than I expected. A damp, coastal cold that seeps through my clothes and my skin and settles in my bones. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket as I walk through the endless, gleaming-white hallways of the premier hospital wing where my father, no doubt, spared no expense to be housed.

Money can buy a lot of things. But it can’t buy time.

Or redemption.

“Bane!” Rotterdam sits in a chair outside the room, his laptop perched precariously on his knees. He looks up at my approach, and a wave of relief washes over his exhausted face. He slaps the laptop closed and tucks it under his arm as he stands to shake my hand.

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

I eye him warily, giving only a grunt. “Is he awake?” I look toward the door.

Because of the time difference between Texas and California, it’s only seven at night, but I have no idea what I’m about to walk into.

Rotterdam nods. “He told me to send you in as soon as you got here. When I checked on him a half hour ago, he wasveryeager to see you.”

I nod. No point in avoiding the inevitable.

I knock on the door once and then push inside.

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