Page 175 of Dance of Ruin

But these are the sort of people my father worked with. And I have to hear it from him.

Ihave to.

He’s silent so long that dread pools in me. But when I risk a glance back at him, his face is pale and horror-stricken.

“Christ,” he chokes out, looking away. “I really did fuck up if that’s what you think I’m capable of.” His head shakes decisively. “No, Naomi.God, no. I wasneverinvolved in anything like that. I need you to know that.”

I search his face. He’s not pleading. Not deflecting. He just looks…old. Honest.

And very tired.

His mouth twists.

“I was a bad father,” he whispers quietly.

I blink. “Dad?—”

“No,” he interrupts gently. “Let me say it.”

He leans forward, the first signs of a tremor in his hands.

“I was cold and dismissive, and made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

I blink faster, my lips parting.

“It wasn’t a mistake.”

I frown. “What?”

“It was on purpose, sweetheart.”

It feels like a rock slamming into my chest.

“After your mother died, I saw what it did to you. I watched it hollow you out and break you. And I knew, with the people I worked with, the world I operated in—there wasn’t exactly a zero percent chance of me dying younger than expected, if you get my meaning.”

His voice cracks.

“So I made sure I wouldn’t be someone you’d mourn.”

I don’t speak at first.

I can’t. There’s too much in my throat and in my chest. In all the quiet spaces that used to ache for exactly this kind of realness from him.

“Dad—”

He’s out of his seat in a second and on his knees beside me, his arms around me, mine around him. I sob into his shoulder, clinging to him as all the years of heartbreak come rushing out all at once.

“Naomi,” he chokes, holding me tight as he strokes my hair. “I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. For all of it.”

We stay like that for several long minutes, until our tears are dry, and I’m just holding him because I’m realizing I’m going to be losing him for a while.

“How…” I swallow as he pulls back, then slips into the banquette to sit next to me. “How long will you…you know…”

He nods. “The lawyers say ten years. Maybe a little less, with good behavior.”

“And then?” I ask.

“Well, I’d say my political career is probably over.” He smirks, something old and familiar flickering in his expression. “Though these days, who knows.”

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