Chapter 30
Barton clasped the bag in his hand and forced his feet to walk, not run, down the corridor.
Two more doors and he was there.
He walked into the room and closed the door that stayed open when no visitors or facility staff were present.
For a moment he could only lean against the door, his heart pounding harder with each breath.
Was he making a mistake to bring this up?
It wasn’t like he would gain anything.
But he had to do it. He could keep this misery to himself no longer.
Barton moved away from the door. The television, he noticed, was muted.
In the long narrow hospital bed, his father lay, the covers tucked neatly around him, his frail eyes staring at the images on the television screen.
Barton moved past the foot of his father’s bed. Those faded blue eyes followed him around to the side of the bed. Barton lowered himself into the chair he always selected when he visited. For a long time he simply sat there, unsure how to approach what he needed to say.
Finally, when he could bear the tremendous pressure no longer, he leaned forward and peered into his father’s watery eyes.
“Why did you do it?”
Thin lids blinked.
Barton didn’t know why he bothered to demand an answer.
His father hadn’t been able to speak in twelve years.
He’d lain in this very bed since his stroke.
Unable to move even a finger or to utter the slightest sound.
Whether or not he could hear or understand was unclear.
He was kept alive with a feeding tube and intravenous fluids.
Would he never die?
The thought filled Barton’s eyes with tears. How could he be so heartless? He loved his father. Had always loved him. But after the stroke, this . . . this god-awful thing had become Barton’s personal burden.
His father was eighty years old. Living on sheer willpower.
What could they do to him?
Nothing.
He was a mere fragile shell of a human with only a glimmer left of the man who once was trapped inside.
But what would they do to Barton for concealing evidence?
How could he protect his family?
He reached out and clutched his father’s cold, feeble hand. “What am I going to do?”
Closing his eyes, Barton fought the overwhelming emotions.
Today at four the profiler from Quantico wanted to see him.
What if he had somehow learned the truth?
Barton opened his eyes.
The agent couldn’t know the truth. Barton squared his shoulders, gathered his courage.
There was no way anyone could know.
Not yet.
Barton would be strong for the interview with the federal agent.
But she . . . she was a different story.
She was not bound by the same laws as the agent. She could dig and sneak around until she discovered Barton’s secret.
He clasped the bag closer. It was his curse.
He had to make sure she didn’t find out. He had to make her go away.
All of his efforts so far had failed. When she’d gone over that ledge, he’d been certain he’d killed her. He shuddered. Had to be losing his mind. He hadn’t meant to push her . . . but the impulse had overwhelmed him.
This was what he had been reduced to!
He had to be brave. Perhaps there was a way without going to such an extreme. Whatever it was, he had to find it. He had to find something that scared her enough to send her running.
No one was immune to fear.
All he had to do was find her one true fear and then he could make her afraid.
Then she would leave.
His burden, his secret, would be safe.