When she was a kid. “You were close to him.”
“Yes,” she says, her voice softening ever so slightly. “Which was why him killing himself just didn’t make sense to me. It didn’t fit.” She finishes off the knot and runs her hand down the tie. “All done. Actually,” she says, reaching into the drawer again, removing a tiepin, and fitting it into place, “now you’re done.”
“Didn’t make sense?” I ask, pulling my jacket off the hanger and shrug into it.
“He loved life,” she says. “There were no indicators he was suicidal. He didn’t even drink.”
“Do you think it was foul play?”
She hugs herself. “No.” She hesitates. “I mean. Not anymore.”
I arch a brow. “Not anymore?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Shane.” The doorbell rings with the coffee order I placed, and I silently curse the timing. “I’m going to get dressed,” she says, turning away.
I let her go for the moment, but she just told me that at some point she thought her father was murdered. I have a fleeting moment when I wonder if that has something to do with why she moved to Denver, but as I exit the closet and head downstairs, I deem that hypothesis unlikely, considering he’d died when she was a teen.
The doorbell rings again right as I reach the door and open it, accepting the Starbucks order from one of the hotel staff members. Hands full, I kick the door shut and turn to find Emily standing close, fully dressed in an all-black sweat suit, her purse over her shoulder. “I’m ready,” she says, closing the distance between us, her skin pale perfection, and her hair not as wild as it was before. “Which one is mine?”
I offer her a cup and it hits me that she might be ashamed of something, and the minute she takes her drink, I flatten my hand on her lower back and pull her close. “You can tell me anything. Whatever you think I can’t handle, believe me, sweetheart, I can.” I don’t wait for a reply or push her, releasing her and opening the door.
She stands there looking at me a moment, appearing a bit shell-shocked, but her eyes slowly soften. She reaches out, flattens her palm on my chest, holding it there a moment before she looks up at me. “Not yet,” she says. “It’s too soon.” Her hand falls away as she steps into the hallway.
Pleased with an answer that wasn’t “never” or “no,” I join her in the hallway and we travel to the elevator. Stepping inside, I punch the lobby level. “You know my father has chemo today, right?”
“Yes. I’ve never been around anyone going through this. Will he be in, do you think?”
“He’s proven stubborn enough to work through it in the past, but I know nothing about how aggressive this flare-up is, or how intense the treatments are. I’m going to the hospital this morning to get a better picture of where he stands.”
“I’m sorry, Shane.” Her hand comes down on my arm, the touch cooling the burning emotion in my chest. “I know this sucks.”
“Cancer is a monster.” A jab of bitterness roughens my voice. “That it’s found another monster is rather ironic.”
“Shane—”
The door opens, giving me an escape from a moment when my emotions might get the best of me, and that would be unacceptable. Emily and I step into the lobby. “The car’s waiting on us,” I say, having ordered it brought around when I ordered the coffee. Her reply is to lace her arm with mine, the silent message of support exactly what I needed, even though I didn’t know it.
We exit to the front of the hotel, and a doorman holds the door to the Bentley for Emily, while Tai waves to her and stops in front of me, lowering his voice. “Your father was here last night and when he left, he was coughing. One of my men said he saw blood on a napkin.”
This news grinds through me and I reach into my pocket to offer him a tip. He holds up a hand. “No. Not this time.”
I give him a nod, his actions offering me one more reason to respect him. I round the car and settle inside with Emily, shutting the door and resting my wrist on the steering wheel. “He was here last night with that woman.”
“The night before chemo?” she asks, nailing exactly what is bothering me.
“Yes. The night before chemo.” I place the car in drive.
“Oh my God. He’s such a bastard.”
“That’s my old man.” I cut the car onto the road, and I don’t ask Emily’s address and she doesn’t offer, assuming I know it, and I do.
It’s about three minutes later when I pull into the driveway of her apartment, an old warehouse converted to lofts, and park, turning to face her. “If you have any trouble today—”
“I’ll call you,” she supplies. “You’ve told me that many times. You take care of you and the business. I’ll take care of me.”
Take care of me. When was the last time anyone gave a shit about me? “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I have meetings off site. I’m not sure when I’ll be in, but call or text if you need me.”