Page 20 of A Thin Line

I couldn’t help the tears that filled my eyes then. I’d managed to hold it together this whole time, fueled by fear and anger, but the rawness of the reality was settling in my soul. “You always told me time goes faster as you get older—so maybe the next ten years will go fast.”

“Yes.”

Damn it. The tears were contagious. So I sucked in a deep breath and blinked and, even though one tear fell, I was able to pull myself together.

Before I could say anything else, though, my dad said, “Or maybe you’ll do such a great job for him, he’ll let you go sooner.”

“Maybe.” But I seriously doubted it. That would again involve a sense of empathy, an emotion I was convinced that family had been born without. “I promise I’ll visit if I can.”

He pulled me into another hug and said, “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll try not to.” It was an honest response, but I didn’t know how well I would manage.

We both turned when we heard someone clearing his throat, obviously demanding our attention. The polite part of me would have introduced these two men to each other—but they knew who the other was without it…and I didn’t want to engage in any niceties with this man.

“It’s time to go.”

I gave a curt nod and then kissed my dad on the cheek. “Please don’t stay up too late.”

“I’ll be fine,” dad said, with a sadness in his green eyes that I knew would haunt me.

“Don’t forget to keep your phone charged.” It was the lamest thing to say, but I’d programmed alarms on it to remind him when to take his medicines. I hoped, though, that he could hear and sense everything I was thinking—another reminder that I’d love and miss him and that I’d be okay no matter what happened.

“Remember what I said.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure what he was referring to—but then I remembered that he wanted me to tell him if I needed him to bail me out. So I simply smiled and bobbed my head, hoping Whittier hadn’t heard most of our exchange.

It was none of his business.

“I guess I better go.” This time, he gave me a short nod, blinking his eyes. As I walked toward Sinclair Whittier, I kept my focus on my backpack and purse. I didn’t dare look at his face. “I’ll lock the door behind me.”

When I picked up my backpack and purse off the floor beside the door, Whittier asked, “Can I carry anything else for you?”

I tried hard to make sure my voice was like ice. “No, I’ve got it.” When he moved out of the doorway, I draped both items over my shoulder and then turned the lock on the knob so that it would latch behind me, one less thing my father would have to do before going to sleep—whether he drifted off in the living room or went to bed.

Or wound up staying awake despite fatigue.

I glanced at my father one last time and gave a tiny wave of my hand, knowing that he could feel my love—and probably also my concern about how he’d cope. But I reminded myself that the stress of a trial, followed by the possibility of my being in prison for years, would have been far, far worse.

Still, as I walked down the dark sidewalk following the man in front of me, I wondered what the hell I was getting into.

Chapter 7

As the limousine made its way through the outskirts of Winchester, I felt my eyes fill with tears again. As much as I hated this place, it was the only home I’d ever known. Deep inside, I knew there was a better life to be had outside that town, but this was not the way I’d wanted to go…especially leaving my father behind.

I was already disgusted with this lavish display of wealth. Who would take a limo from Denver to Winchester and why?

The only words Whittier had said once we’d gotten to the car were to the driver, a man who called Whittier sir in response.

If he thought I was going to show reverence and deference to him, he was going to experience the shock of his life. I realized I was at his mercy and that I had promised to work for him, but I would not bow to him or be respectful in that way. He did not deserve my respect.

The limousine wasn’t necessarily obscene and, on the outside, it was barely bigger than a normal sedan. Inside, however, was a different story. The seats were large, made of black leather, and far more comfortable than the ones in my little car I was leaving behind. There were also soft purple lights lining the ceiling. Fortunately, there was a big console between our seats that would hold drinks as well as functioning as an arm rest—and I imagined it as a barrier, keeping us as far apart as possible.

Unlike a compact car, there was also plenty of room for Whittier to stretch his long legs.

As the highway grew dark as we left the town behind, I considered trying to sleep—but, even though it was late and I was exhausted, I knew I wouldn’t be able to relax enough. Besides, I thought I was ready to begin becoming a thorn in this man’s side.

“A limo, huh? Do you take this everywhere you go?”

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