Page 84 of Torched Spades
Those people… As in patients.
“Go home,” I say, turning away only to have him move in front of me.
“I need you to come to the station and file a report.”
I stare at him a moment before letting out a brittle laugh.
His expression tightens. “What’s so funny?”
“My receptionist reminded me a few weeks ago about the definition of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Despite what you’d like to believe, I’m not insane, Dad.”
“Becca, just listen to me—”
“I’m done listening. I’ve been down this road with you before, remember? The only place it leads is a dead end.”
His expression tightens. “Someday you’ll understand why I did what I did.”
“No, I won’t. We don’t think alike. I spend my life repairing the minds of others, not twisting them to fit my narrative. We’re done here.”
“Becca…”
“I said, we’re done. You can leave on your own, or I can call security have you removed. However, I don’t think that would reflect favorably on your shiny image.”
Pursing his lips, he gives me a hard stare before backing away. “This isn’t over.”
“It never is,” I whisper, standing stock-still as I watch him get into his police car and drive away. Only then do I straighten my finger, letting the pistol in my hands settle into my purse.
“You think he knew he had a bullet on him the whole time?”
Letting out a yelp, I spin around again, this time coming face-to-face with a man I watched walk out of my office over an hour ago. “What the hell, Johnny?” I shout, sliding my hand from my purse to clutch my chest. “Are you trying to give me heart failure?” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“I was in the area.”
“Bullshit. You’re stalking me,again.”
“If making sure you get safely from that door to that one”—he swings his finger from the building to my car—“is considered stalking to you, then, yeah… I guess I was. When I said I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you again, I was dead serious. I never make promises I don’t keep.” He slides an amused gaze toward my purse. “Do you have a permit to carry that thing?”
“Several.”
His smile fades. “Becca, what happened between you and your father to cause all this animosity?”
“Please don’t start. I don’t want to talk about him. You don’t understand—”
“I understand all too well,” he interjects, a dark cloud blotting his crisp gaze. “Family trees don’t always stay intact. Some broken limbs are best left on the ground where they belong.”
Something about those words both calm and frighten me.
Still, I nod my appreciation. “Yeah, exactly.” Opening the driver’s side door, I take two steps, then stop and turn around. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For keeping your word.”Because I needed you to. Because a jar of broken promises fills faster than a box of whole ones.
“Becca, I know how important your job is to you, so I want you to know that inside those walls I’ll abide by your ‘rules.’”
Wait, what?“You will?”
“Yes,inside those walls,” he stresses. His dark gaze shifts toward the silent building as he steps around the door I’m gripping like a lifeline. “Outside them, all lines have already been crossed. If you think I’m going to stare at those perfect curves in your office and then not touch them after hours, you aren’t as good at your job as you think you are.”
