Page 88 of High Velocity

I could make a dive for it, but an action like that might be misconstrued by the passengers sitting around us. I’ll get it back once we’ve picked up our rental car. Annoyed, I turn my head to look out the window, not that there’s much to see, whatever part of the country we’re currently flying over, it’s pretty much clouded over.

“Trust me,” he urges in a low voice, leaning in to me. “You overwork that arm now; you could do damage that’ll set you right back. I’ve been there and it sucks. Just stick to the plan the PT laid out this morning and learn to be patient. It’ll get you much further in the end.”

I wish I could cross my arms in defiance, but that’s a bit of a challenge when one of them is in a sling. At least I’ve been given the all-clear and can look forward to a shower at the hotel tonight.

We caught a flight into Grand Rapids, but since we’ll be arriving fairly late, we’re booked at a hotel not too far from the airport. We’ll pick up our rental, crash for the night at the hotel, and drive up to Traverse City first thing in the morning. It’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive.

I hope to find my father home. To be honest, I have no idea how he gets through his days, but I do know he still lives in the old house. Not a surprise, he’s probably too stubborn to give it up, but I’d prefer to spend as little time as possible there. My last eight or so years living there erased any lingering good memories from when Mom was still alive. The house could burn down and I wouldn’t blink.

I’m not sure how he’ll react when he sees me, and part of me is scared of what I may find out, but it’s better to know than to wonder.

“I can hear you thinking again.”

I turn my head to find Jackson smiling.

“I just don’t like not knowing what to expect,” I admit. “And I hate that Vallard is still messing with my head from beyond the grave.”

I told Jackson about the references Ben made to my father’s involvement a few days ago, when I was looking at flights. To his credit, he didn’t once tell me I should’ve shared that information with Bellinger. Instead, he seemed to understand my need to confront my father face-to-face.

“Can’t tell you what to expect, but be prepared to find out the worst. Whether or not he decides to share with you, you’ll know either way. And—if I can put my two cents’ worth in—I think he’s up to his eyeballs. It would explain why he’s steering completely clear of you right now.”

I have a hard time admitting I’ve had those thoughts myself. Because even if he doesn’t care much for me, he cares about appearances and his reputation with the Bureau.

“Could be.”

“So what is the plan? If he’s home, if he’s willing to talk, and if he admits having even had some minor involvement with this, what do you want to do?”

I’ve thought about this. A lot. So far I’ve justified leaving my father’s name out of things because I conveniently hung on to the idea Ben was playing games with me. However, once I have confirmation, I have no choice but to report it to Bellinger. I know my career may already be over, and he may be my father, but I’m not willing to give up my honor or my integrity for him.

“If that is the case, I’m giving him twenty-four hours to do the right thing. If he hasn’t turned himself in by that time, I will share what I know with Bellinger.”

“Will you get in trouble?” he asks, slipping his hand in mine.

“Probably. Hell, they may even draw into question whether or not I had any involvement with these crimes myself, but so be it. They won’t find anything on me, and at least I’ll know, for once and for all, my father doesn’t give a single fuck about me.”

I’m pissed I’m still shedding a tear at that deep ache of rejection I thought I’d left behind me. But my use of profanity has drawn the attention of the elderly woman sitting on Jackson’s other side. She leans forward and pins me with a disapproving glare.

“Keep your vulgar language to yourself,” she hisses.

Jackson doesn’t hesitate to swing around at her and block her view of me, responding in a calm, but dead-serious voice.

“Respectfully, mind your own fucking business…Ma’am,” he adds with emphasis, before turning his back on her.

When he turns back to me, I’m struggling to hold back my laughter. I can hear the woman’s disgruntled mumblings behind him.

“Diplomacy is not your forte, but at least you were polite, I’ll give you that.”

“No.”

I take in a deep breath, trying to keep my cool, as we pull into my old neighborhood in Traverse City.

“He may be more forthcoming if?—”

“No. I’m not going to let you walk in there alone,” he insists.

“You wouldn’t insist if I was a guy,” I fire back at him.

He shrugs.

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