Page 94 of The Tryst

There’s only one way to tell the story. In medias res, like it happened to me.

“We lived on Park Avenue then. It was a Thursday evening. I was at home with my dad. We’d just finished dinner. My mother was away on a business trip. She was flying home at the time. We had delivery from a Vietnamese restaurant I liked. My father said as we ate that it was because I was his favorite daughter,” I say, then purse my lips to fight off the first lump forming in my throat. “And when we finished, I said I’d pick up a book he wanted at the bookstore since, well, since he was my favorite dad.”

I shrug, offering a sad smile at the sweet part of the memory. The part no one can tarnish.

Nick smiles sadly too, his eyes shining as I keep going.

“So I got ready to leave to pick up a legal thriller. He loved those. Loved critiquing them. As I was grabbing my phone, his rang. It was Joe. His partner at the firm. When I was at the door, my dad told me Joe was coming by, but it wouldn’t take long. He just needed to chat about a case, and he was in the neighborhood,” I say. The short sentences help. The almost procedural-like recap is the only way to tell this. “I left to pick up the book. I saw him when he turned onto my block.”

I close my eyes, picturing the man I’d said hello to at dinners, events, and charity functions for years. An ordinary face. Nothing special. I open my eyes. “He said hello to me, but his tone was distant. I said, hello, Mr. McBride.”

I see his face. His worried eyes. His fidgety hands.

With a wince, I blink away the images. “I don’t think he went there to kill my father. I think he was a frustrated guy heading to see his business partner. I was the daughter going to run an errand. That was all.”

Nick shudders out a breath, perhaps bracing himself for what’s coming.

“At the bookstore, there was a short line at the counter, and the clerk had to grab the book from the back, where it had been put on hold,” I say, my voice hollow. “Then I went home. The whole trip took around thirty minutes. I went back inside, up the elevator, down the hall,” I say, then my shoulders shake.

I exhale. Inhale. Count to three. Breathe again.

Nick runs a hand along my arm. “You can stop. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t, Layla. You don’t. I swear.”

With a sniff, I shake off the out he’s giving me. “No, I want to,” I say, my throat raw. I haven’t shared this with anyone except the police that night and my mother, of course. Then, with Harlow, Ethan, and my therapist after. There’s been no one else I’ve wanted to share this with.

Until now.

And now I’m stronger than I was when I had to tell it years ago. Stronger than when the police asked me questions. Stronger because I survived.

“Outside the door, I heard their voices. The commotion. They’d been arguing. They’d been arguing a week before too. I’d heard pieces of the conversation. Joe had lashed out at my father on the phone. Called him a liar because of what my father had learned.”

“What did he learn?” Nick asks, hanging on my every word.

“Joe had been stealing money from the firm, from the clients’ trust funds. We only know this because my father recorded their conversation on his phone that night.”

“Smart man,” Nick says, respect in his eyes.

“Yeah, he was,” I say, taking a levity break to praise the deceased. “He was very smart. And my mother had the passcode, so she found the file. Joe had come over that night to plead with my dad. Told him he’d pay the money back. My father said he’d have to report it to the State Bar, because he was required to…but that meant Joe would lose his law license. And that’s when everything escalated.”

Nick swallows roughly, scrubs his free hand across his beard. “I’m listening,” he says quietly, tightly.

I try to imagine I’m floating above the room, telling the story, but it’s too hard a trick to execute. The only way through it is, well, through it. “When I opened the door, I walked in on it.”

“Oh god,” Nick whispers, shock thick in his voice.

The memory. The images. The scene. My heart shatters all over again but I push on. “They were fighting in the kitchen. My father was still standing but clearly losing. He was bleeding. Joe had taken a knife from the counter,” I say, trying to tell the story in short bursts, in quick clinical details. “He’d stabbed my father multiple times. I screamedstop. Then I stopped thinking. I lunged, tried to grab the knife from him, but he spun around and attacked me.”

Nick stutters out a breath. Red billows from his eyes—a new kind of rage I’ve never seen in anyone. He clenches his fist. “He hurt you,” Nick hisses, reaching for my left shoulder instantly.

Nick obviously knows the outcome. I’m safe. I’m fine. But I can hear retribution forming on his tongue—where is he, I’ll find him, I’ll kill him.

“He went for my heart, but he missed. Badly. He got my shoulder,” I say, then I can’t stop the tears. I just can’t. They rain down as I choke out, “My father grabbed the knife from Joe as he lunged at me again. The knife fell to the floor, then Joe panicked. Ran from the apartment, down the hall to the stairs,” I cry. “I called 911, but the EMTs were already there. The cops too. My neighbors had heard and called. Everything happened in a blur. My dad and I were in the ambulance being rushed to the hospital. I held him as he…”

I stop to refuel. Nick’s clasping my hand, his gaze locked on mine.

And I will make it to the end of this story, dammit. No matter how hard the next part is. “He whispered something to me,” I say, barely audible.

“What did he say, sweetheart?” Nick asks as a tear rolls down his cheek.

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