Page 88 of Bad Rio

She watched him, hurt beyond measure. “Why?” she whispered, agonized. “Why are you saying these things? Why are you leaving?”

“Cause it’s time,” he answered simply.

Becca felt her face flush. Suddenly she felt used. Giving him her back, she pulled at the ties of her light robe, tightened them around her waist until they pinched her skin.

The small pain helped her to gather dignity. She refused to beg. Dashing at her eyes, she said, “Hey, thanks for everything. Much appreciated and all that. Have a great life.”

“Don’t be mad, Becca. I told you. I’m bad.”

She heard rather than saw his hand open the door.

Whirling, she said, “You know what I think? I think you use that word to describe yourself when you need emotional protection. It’s a wall you build soyouwon’t get hurt.”

He shrugged, but she kept on. She had to. “I am mad at you right now, but mad doesn’t even begin to describe this. I’m furious. And Iamhurt. You’re just going to walk out of here and out of my life like I don’t matter to you?”

He remained silent.

“But I do, Rio,” she said. The sadness had already started seeping in, pulling her down, down into a whirling vortex of agony. “I really, really do. Life won’t leave you unscathed when you keep running from it. Youwillmiss me. You’re going to miss me something awful.”

He just stared at her.

She could barely speak around the terrible lump in her throat, but she had to get out a final notion. “One last thing. You keep saying you’re bad. You use it as a shield. I’m disappointed and angry. But there’s a simple truth one day you’ll have to face.” She raised her chin. “You’re wrongheaded and acting just plain stupid. And oh, and now insulting. But despite all that, you’re not bad, Rio. You’re good. You’re a good man.” Trembling now, she sent him all her pain and agony through her eyes. She pointed outside as though his leaving were all her idea. “Now go.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t her idea at all.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Two months later

Accepting her photo identification the uniformed desk clerk returned to her, as she had done on several prior trips to the county jail, Becca was led through a metal detector, down long hallways, through locked doors and into the visiting room.

She’d been advised to leave her purse and all valuables at home or in a locked car. She was told to dress conservatively. In the visiting room, other inmates sat at adjacent window talk boxes and shouted through the screen to be heard. Voices echoed loudly off the barren walls. In the gray room, it was loud, and there was absolutely no privacy.

Becca hid her distress. She hated coming here.

She took a chair and waited for her father to appear on the other side of the metal screen. He was led in and she saw that the baggy orange jumpsuit did his complexion no favors. His eyes were defeated, his face hangdog. The skin around his neck drooped and to Becca, her once-handsome father had never looked older. Ever since his arrest, he’d worn the beaten expression. It had become permanent.

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