“No, I’m not,” Jeff retorted. “Lucky for you. Lucky for your daughter.”
He became aware of Lauren sniveling at his side; he’d almost forgotten she was there. “Daddy . . .” She said plaintively, but her father’s expression was stony. “Please don’t hate me.” Jeff realized that Darren’s insult had encompassed Lauren as well. He suddenly felt that fierce, misplaced protectiveness.
“Lauren’s not disgusting,” Jeff spat at the small man. “She’s sixteen. She’s confused and alone and messed-up. She needs love and guidance and her father’s attention.” Jeff’s voice was getting louder, angrier.
“You need to leave,” Darren Ross said, cool, calm, dismissive. But Jeff was just getting started.
“Your ex-wife’s not a parent. She’s a drunk, bitter, pill-popping disaster. And you’re never there for Lauren. You’re always working or traveling. You expect your bimbo of a wife to do the parenting, but she doesn’t have a clue!”
Darren suddenly snapped. “You’re judging me? A kid lost her fucking eye at your house.”
Jeff had never wanted to hit someone so much in his entire life. And he could take this leprechaun out with one punch. It would feel so good, so fucking rewarding. But Darren Ross would charge him with assault. Lisa would have more ammunition against them. Kim would murder Jeff. . . .
Jeff wouldn’t touch him, but Darren didn’t know that. Jeff took a menacing step forward. “Fuck you, you piece of shit,” he growled.
Lauren clung to Jeff’s arm. “Don’t hurt my dad, Jeff. Please!” It sounded inappropriate. The way she was hanging off his arm was too familiar, too proprietary. The clients were muttering among themselves now, gathering papers, digging out cell phones, preparing to leave or call for help.
Darren Ross paled under his tan. He made a move toward a phone on the credenza. “I’m calling security.”
“Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” Jeff strode to the door, then paused. He turned back toward the CEO and spoke, his voice softer, almost plaintive. “Parent your daughter,” he said. “Pay attention to her . . . before it’s too late.” Then he left, practically jogging through the lobby, back to the elevator.
It wasn’t until he was safely ensconced in his car, creeping through downtown traffic, that he felt his blood pressure return to normal. He felt something else, too, a weight off his conscience, a lightening of his spirit. He wasn’t drunk—the adrenaline of the confrontation had taken care of that—he was . . . relieved. It was over. He actually laughed out loud at the prospect.
He spoke to his car. “Dial. Home.”
The car obeyed and he listened to the ring. It would be echoing in his spacious, modern house, bouncing off clean white walls and stylish, uncomfortable furniture. The only clutter in the place was emotional: tension, stress, regrets. . . . After a few moments, Kim answered, “Hello.” Her voice was cool and angry. She was obviously still pissed that he’d walked out on her this afternoon. Little did she know, he was about to make her fucking day.
“Let’s go to trial,” he said into the phone. “Let’s prove this wasn’t our fucking fault.”
hannah
SIXTY-EIGHT DAYS AFTER
Hannah’s clock radio blared an overplayed Adele song (was there any other kind?) to wake her up. She rolled over and stopped the auditory assault. The red LED numbers glowed in the early-morning light: 7:15 A.M. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, but her mom had insisted she get up at her usual time. Hannah’s suspension from school “was not a goddamn holiday,” and she wasn’t going to “laze around in bed like she was on a fucking vacation.” Hannah remembered when her mom didn’t swear. It wasn’t all that long ago.
She dragged herself into a seated position and rubbed at her eyes. Any minute now, her mom would storm in to make sure she hadn’t hit the snooze button. God knows Hannah didn’t deserve ten extra minutes of slumber after what she’d done! Hannah listened for the angry footsteps on the stairs. This was the third day of her punishment, and her mom showed no signs of easing up. The woman had a gift for staying pissed.
Hannah heard nothing, but she had to be prepared for a sneak attack. She got up and found her slippers, placed neatly at the end of the bed. Day one: Clean up your filthy room! It’s no wonder your life is going off the rails, living in this pigsty! Kim Sanders seriously believed that clutter could cause juvenile delinquency.
She was putting on her plush, mauve robe when she became aware of a presence outside her door. Her mom was about to burst into the room and lay out the day’s schedule of chores, homework, and any other penance she could drum up. Hannah was ready: awake, alert, and suitably dour given the cause of her day off school.
There was a soft rap at the door—Kim did not announce her entrance these days—followed by, “Can I come in?” It was her dad. Though Hannah didn’t respond, the door opened a crack and Jeff poked his head inside. “Hey.” He stepped into the room. “Can we talk?”
Hannah belted her robe and fixed him with an icy stare. She wanted to say no; she wanted to tell him to leave her alone, to go for a bike ride and ignore her, like he usually did . . . but something had to be wrong. Her dad was never home at 7:15 A.M. Early-morning training sessions were his favorite.
“What’s going on?”
He moved over to the bed and straightened the butter-colored duvet. Then he sat and patted a space beside him. “Come sit.”
“I’ll stand,” she retorted. She wanted to keep her distance. She didn’t want her dad trying to hold her hand, or stroke her hair, or comfort her in any way. He disgusted her.
Jeff nodded and took a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about Lauren Ross. . . .”
A bubble of revulsion churned in her stomach. Hannah wanted to storm out of the room; she wanted to slap her dad across the face; she wanted to crawl into his lap and cry. . . . She did none of those; she just stood there.
Her dad continued, “I don’t know what Lauren told you about me . . . about me and her . . . but Lauren is a very troubled girl.”
Hannah gave him a duh look but remained mute.
“I need you to know the truth, Hannah. There was never anything going on between Lauren and me.”
Lauren and me. Could she cover her ears and sing? But her dad just kept talking.
“Lauren came to the gym one day and I gave her a ride home. I shouldn’t have done it, but I felt sorry for her. Then she started texting me. I wanted her to stop, but she wouldn’t. Somehow, she got it into her head that there was something between us . . . something romantic. . . .”
Oh God. It was getting worse.
“She sent me photos.” Hannah knew what was coming. She kept her eyes on the floor, but she could hear the strain in her dad’s voice. “Nude photos . . . I didn’t look at them. I deleted them right away. And I blocked her number. But then she showed up at my office. She was trying to blackmail me over the champagne, telling me she’d turn you against me. I—” His voice broke.