Page 47 of What's Left of Us

“This year,” I correct. “In January we started interviewing Constantine again. I stopped by the house to tell you, remember?”

“January,” dad repeats, his expression thoughtful. “So long ago.”

I wait and see if he wants to say anything else on that. Dad’s not mental like Porscha, the chemo just makes him forget some things.

He finally looks back at me with a glare. “I didn’t do anything to that girl.”

I narrow my eyes. “Or any others?”

“Ask me what you really want to ask Sterling,” he tells me, before his chest shakes as he coughs. It’s a pained sound, moving his whole body, and I wince. I don’t think I hate my father but I’m upset with the way certain things played out because of some of his actions. Shifting in my seat, I glance around for something to give him, but Mom’s told me before that nothing really helps. Dad’s cough is aggravated from years of smoking.

My eyes glance over the machines. He’s in denial, but now that I’m here I can see this for what it is. He’s reaching the end, and soon none of the preventative measures will change what’s to come. His cancer is too aggressive, and the chemo’s making him weaker instead of helping to destroy the cancer cells. His cough alone makes me think the treatment regimen is doing more harm than good to his insides.

I wait until the coughing subsides before meeting his gaze again. His eyes are watery, and I pick up the box of tissues before helping him wipe them away. His fingers shake when I help, and as I sit back again he huffs and looks away.

Mom told me he hates the help. It embarrasses him, but at this point I think he needs it, and it’s painful to watch.

“Constantine died,” I tell him, and even as my heart tightens at the reminder, Dad turns to look at me with an ugly grin. It destroys any worry I have over his care, reminding me he always hated Alastair.

“Good,” he says, looking towards the far wall instead of at me, “about time he was executed.”

“Lance Wallsburg shot him in the hospital while he was restrained,” I snap, his eyes drifting back to me. “It wasn’t via Death Row. Wallsburg went rogue and shot him before he was killed too.”

“Lance did that?” dad asks, cocking his head. He really does sound surprised. “Huh. I know he always had his opinions on Porscha, but he had no reason to shoot Constantine if she was still alive.”

I blink, processing that in my head before responding. He’s never told me something like that before. “What do you mean he had opinions on Porscha?”

Dad scoffs. “He was sweet on her, and went mental when she died. Of course she wasn’t dead, but he went and talked to the ME a few times about her after her death. I remember he was always there chatting with Dr. Whitmore and I had to shoo him away so I could ask questions. Lance always spoke poorly about the CGS, but he would speak fondly of Porscha. I assumed he was soft on her.”

I shift back, thinking it over. That would’ve been useful to knowbeforeLance died. If he liked Porscha at all, and was under the assumption that Alastair killed her just like the rest ofus, his hate for Alastair might make a bit more sense. If his hate was strong enough it could extend to his son, and Kyle had deep seeded hate for Alastair as well, Sounds like it was a familial trait.

Lance didn’t have a wife, so there’s no immediate family to question. With both Lance and Kyle gone, I’m not sure what I can do with what Dad just shared.

But visiting Whitmore? That would complicate things, and I don’t know right now where I would start investigating that. I’ll have to share with the team and think about it when we aren’t supposed to have the day off.

Even if I knew about Lance’s fixation with Porscha apparently, I’m not sure it would help me save Alastair’s life. No one predicated that Lance, a decorated officer, would choose to shoot up the hospital after the death of his son months before. We should’ve paid more attention to him, but he fell through the cracks.

“Sterling,” Dad says, and I meet his gaze again. He looks… disappointed? I’d think he’d choose anger over disappointment, but his face isn’t tense. “You’re not upset that a killer is dead, are you?”

“I’m upset that one was killed instead of letting the law handle things,” I lie. Every word tastes bad but he doesn’t need to know that. “Wallsburg had no business bringing a gun to the hospital.”

“In Citrus Grove?”

I narrow my eyes. He really has no idea this happened? “At a hospital in Tallahassee. You didn’t see the news report?”

He huffs. “Your mother won’t let me watch the news anymore. She says it’s bad for my health. I get too worked up.”

My father is obsessed with the news, so I’m kind of impressed Mom could pull off something like that. She probably hid the remote. In that case… “Porscha’s alive.”

He nods, and we stare at each other. And stare. Andstare.“So.”

Blinking, I try to figure out what the hell is happening. When I talked to Dad last, he was all about getting Alastair nailed down for everything we could. He suggested amping up the jealousy, sticking him with whatever we could, and even mentioned getting him booted back to the Supermax in Illinois if enough got pinned on him. “What the hell do you mean by ‘so?’”

Dad shrugs. “We never fully proved the body found was Porscha Surwright. There was speculation that it was someone else. Teeth were missing right? Hands too? Could have been a fake body.”

I’d considered that with the rest of my team before Porscha returned. Dad shouldn't be acting like it’s no big deal though. This case was his baby. I expected a big blowup reaction to hearing Porscha was still alive, and not just alive, but now in prison. We haven’t even gotten that far yet.

My phone buzzes, and I glance down at the caller ID. “Excuse me for a moment.”

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