“Son,” he remarks evenly when he approaches the table.
Animosity sparks as I look at this man who sits across from me. Memories of all the disdain he’s spit my way throughout my life, only to evade his own wrongdoings, ignites rage inside me.
“How did you find out?”
“You haven’t heard?” I respond and he shakes his head. “Your boss?”
“My boss?”
“Keep playing dumb with me,” I taunt. “I know everything. I just want to hear you tell the truth for once in your life.”
“Stop with the riddles, kid, and just tell me what you think you know.”
My hands fist; it’s a futile attempt to control my fury, and I glare at him. “I know about Mum. I know she died because of you.”
“I loved that woman—”
His words—his flagrant lie—set me off, and I punch the table, losing control. “You fucking bastard!”
“Hey!” one guard yells, calling me into check.
“She died because of you,” I seethe, lowering my voice. “Because of your greed, she had to pay the consequences.”
“You don’t know shit, kid.”
“Admit it,” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders as if he’s clueless and guiltless, and I can’t stand to look at his smug face any longer, so I speed this up. “You knew Richard was going to kill her. That’s why you left the country, because you didn’t want to be there when it happened. You were running from the guilt, weren’t you?”
“How do you know about Richard?”
“You know he’s dead, right?” I ask and he nods. “I killed him.” His eyes widen when I tell him this, and I smile proudly. “Don’t worry, Dad. Cops already know I did it.”
He doesn’t respond to what I’ve just admitted to him. He simply stares at me, dumbfounded.
“Because of him, I know everything you’ve been hiding from me. Everything.”
He takes a hard swallow and hangs his head, succumbing to the truth because he has no other choice at this point. He can’t bullshit me any longer.
“I know it all, Dad,” I whisper harshly, digging the knife into him even deeper, and when he finally gets the balls to lift his head to look me in the eye, he says, “Then you know what I’m facing.”
“It’s all over the news.”
His demeaning voice shifts to that of neediness. “I need your help, son.”
“Admit it first. Admit that you were the one responsible for Mum dying.”
“I need your help,” he deflects, talking quickly in a hushed tone. “Camilla is my only line to the outside, aside from my lawyer, but I haven’t talked to her in a week. I need your help to get in touch with Lachlan.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you why, but I need to talk to him.”
“About Camilla?”
“Camilla? Why would I talk to him about her?” he questions in utter confusion. “What do you know?”
“Only that your girlfriend has conflicting fidelities.”
“I’m getting the feeling he does too,” he murmurs, jaw clenched in anger.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ask him.”
“I’m asking you,” I say as my irritation grows in sync with suspicions that I’m missing some important details about Lachlan.
“I needed to keep an eye on you when you left Chicago,” he says cryptically. “Tell me, because I need to know, who’s Elizabeth Archer and what the fuck is she doing at The Water Lily?”
That fucking bastard. I will kill Lachlan when I get back to London, because it’s now apparent that whatever involvement he told me he has with my father is a lie. The only way my dad could get that information would be from him. But it’s his mention of The Water Lily that has me curious when I think of the photo that Elizabeth found there.
“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” I say. “But first, tell me what I should know about The Water Lily.”
He looks at me suspiciously, saying nothing.
“Why is there a picture of me there?” I ask, giving him a bit of information to try to spur him into an answer.
“Because,” he sighs, leaning forward.
“Tell me the truth.”
He looks at me for a moment before revealing, “The woman who runs it . . .”
“Isla.”
“Yes,” he says. “She’s your grandmother.”
“What?”
“Isla is your mother’s mum.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I mutter. “Why was she never around?”
“Because she never approved of me dating her daughter. It was years of ups and downs, and when I married your mum, that’s what finally severed them—the fact that your mother chose me.”
“And even when Mum died, you never told me.”
“What was there to tell?”
I stand, unable to continue this conversation or look at this man who has filled my life with countless lies.
“Son . . .”
“Stop avoiding and just tell me.”