Page 89 of Bad Rio

She leaned toward the screen and raised her voice. “Hi, Dad. You okay?”

He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Good as can be expected. How are you and the boys?”

“Fine, we’re back to work at the warehouse, doing what we’ve always done. The company is in shipshape.”

“It’s your company now, yours and the boys. I’ve signed everything over to you three. My attorney has all the paperwork.” He glanced around at the drab gray walls. “It’s not like I need a business any more. I’ll be incarcerated, probably until I die.”

“Maybe you won’t be convicted, Dad.” The moment the comment left her lips, she knew it to be a lie. His trial would take place in the coming months.

“I will, though. It’s all right. I deserve it. So does Tim.” He shook his head. “My mind got too filled with glory, and the prospect of political power. It was heady, and I was willing to do anything to achieve it.” He glanced at the floor. “I lost my way.”

She drew a deep breath. “The boys and I have set up a savings account. We’ll deposit a salary every month. So, when you do get out, you’ll have a nice nest egg. You won’t be destitute. And if you want, you can come live with one of us, but you won’t have to. You’ll have means.”

Abruptly, the older man’s bloodshot eyes filled. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course we do, Dad. It was your company. We owe you that.”

He smiled tremulously. “John visited me this week.”

“I know. We’re going to take turns. James will come next. Every couple of weeks, you can count on a visit from at least one of us.”

He put his hand on the screen. “I’m sorry, Rebecca. I’m so sorry.” He choked back a sob.

Becca fought tears. How far he’d fallen, from a wealthy, serious contender for a lofty senate seat, now to this woeful new low.

A jailer called his name and he jerked, then slowly faced his daughter again. “Thanks for coming by to see your old daddy.” He shuffled out of the room.

Melancholy, she got up and followed a guard guiding her through the locked and barred doors to outside the grim building, and to freedom. Although it was an eighty-degree day in San Antonio and the sun warmed her hair, she shivered. To be locked up, shackled, kept prisoner was something she’d experienced during her brief time as a captive of the Mexican cartel. She never wanted to relive that sort of thing again. Always law abiding, after these visits to see her father, she knew she’d never again even jaywalk.

In her car, she paid the parking attendant and pulled into traffic. On the seat beside her, there had been a bloodstain from Rio’s injury. She’d had it professionally cleaned. When, the second morning, she’d woke to his scent on her pillow, she washed everything.

He’d left nothing behind, and she had nothing to remember him by, not a photo, nor article of clothing, nor the simplest talisman. At first she wanted it that way, wanted nothing around that would remind her of him. The agony was too sharp.

She had only her memories, and those she could not erase like the stain in her car or his smell from her pillow.

Each time they invaded her thoughts, her mood sunk to miserable, tear-inducing lows. At work, she struggled to concentrate, at home, she cried. A lot. Even feeding her frogs made her weep because she recalled how grateful she’d been when Rio had tended to her small pets. His thoughtfulness had touched her.

Like snapshots in her mind, memories of their times at the mountain cabin flashed by, of his warming her body when she was sick, and of her caring for him when he was injured. Finally, of their incredible lovemaking. Those times, she remembered most of all. And most of all ... his tenderness.

Now, Rio was gone and there was nothing she could do about it.

In the end he’d wounded her deeply. She’d been dumped. Hard. And he’d denigrated her work. It still bewildered her, why he’d felt the need to do that. If he’d wanted to be free of her, why not just walk away? Indeed, he’d been unnecessarily cruel.

The bruising of her feminine ego was the least of it. She missed him. Each day when she woke, her chest hurt and she wondered if that was the kind of pain that produced the termheartbroken. Of course the pain was only psychosomatic, not real. There was nothing wrong with the heart beating in her chest. She was healthy. But the pain persisted.

Her girlfriends called, but she refused their entreaties to go out. She didn’t feel like company. Maria phoned from Mexico, from her father’s mansion.

“You wouldn’t believe how my father has strengthened security around here,” Maria said. “He’s so glad you were returned home safely, but he never wants anything like that to happen again.”

“I’m just glad you two are safe,” Becca returned. They chatted for a while and when they hung up, Becca thought of Rio rescuing her from her hostage takers, and again she burst into tears.

Now, even two months later, the ache was just as fresh as it had been the day he’d walked out.

She was afraid it would never end.

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