Chapter 6
A fter I had dad in his recliner back at home, surrounded with a glass of water, a cup of tea, and a little soup—not to mention his remote control—I sat on the sofa not far away.
I had my phone handy, having promised to update Sinclair about his progress.
I knew he’d still be at work so I wasn’t going to call.
But he had left me a text message, asking how everything had gone.
I texted him back: Dad seems to be handling the infusion okay, but he’s tired.
I need to keep an eye on him through tomorrow at least.
He has another infusion scheduled for the middle of the month, and I need to be there for that too.
But I’m hoping to be back in Denver by Sunday.
After a few minutes, I added, He’ll have two maintenance treatments every year thereafter, and if this works as well as it’s supposed to, he’ll be in much better shape than he is now.
I’m hopeful.
I really wanted to tell him about everything I’d learned about his mother—but that would be a conversation better had in person.
Dad was feeling a little more energetic the next day, but we knew the effects from the infusion—the positive ones, anyway—wouldn’t be felt for a while.
Instead, there were concerns about infection that we—or he , once I went back to Denver—would have to monitor for.
The clinic had sent us home with plenty of information, including what to do in the event of various complications.
At breakfast, he said, “After not feeling hungry yesterday, I think I could eat a horse today.”
“Well, I didn’t see any frozen horse meat in the freezer. Can I make you something else?”
Dad smiled.
“You know what sounds good? Lasagna.”
Ah…
lasagna was one of the few meals I felt like I was really good at making.
A couple of years earlier, I’d followed a recipe on the back of the noodle box, and we loved it so much, I’d cut it out, storing it like a recipe card in a card file we kept in a cabinet in the kitchen.
“Do you want garlic bread and salad too?”
“I thought that went without saying.”
I laughed.
“Okay. But I didn’t buy any of the ingredients when I was at the store on Tuesday.”
“Then let’s make a trip.”
It was a great idea in theory—but we discovered after breakfast that my father was still exhausted.
Although he’d had a burst of energy at first, he seemed to wear out quickly—but that was to be expected.
So it would be just me, rather than the two of us.
Before I left, I said, “Text or call if you need me back here.”
As if I hadn’t said a thing, he asked, “Would you buy a pint of ice cream while you’re at it?”
“Rocky road?”
He acted like he was going to tell me a different flavor but then said, “Yes, that sounds good.” So I pulled the list out of my purse and added it, not wanting to forget my father’s celebration meal.
I would never say it to him, but I was so proud of how he’d made himself do the treatment despite how his apprehension had grown as the day had approached.
I suspected he’d worried because of having to face it alone—but when I took him, he felt braver about it.
As I drove to the store in Sinclair’s beautiful car, I felt nothing but gratitude toward him because he’d finally agreed to let me be here to take care of my dad.
Those two men were the most important men in my life—but they would each probably never know that.
I forced myself to push those thoughts out of my head after I parked the car and walked into the grocery store.
When I walked inside, I grabbed a cart and made my way to the produce section on the right.
With Halloween just a few weeks away, they had pumpkins, gourds, and squash on full display—some for carving and others simply for decoration.
Running my hand over the smooth orange skin of one of the bigger pumpkins, I considered putting it in the cart to carve.
Until I realized just how foolish that was.
Even though I’d probably be back in two weeks to care for my father as he received his second treatment, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it—nor would my father.
When I was younger, he’d help me carve my jack-o’-lantern, but I never thought he was much into it.
Buying a pumpkin would do nothing but present him with yet another burden.
So I focused.
In the produce department, I needed lettuce and tomatoes for the Italian salad I always made as well as fresh garlic for the dressing and the bread.
Fortunately, the store was the same, just as it had been on Tuesday, and I’d discovered then that it was like I’d never left.
I knew I’d find the Italian sausage along the back wall where all the meat was displayed and the bread would be farther down that way in the bakery section.
The noodles and sauce would be past the soda and chips; the cheese and butter would be in dairy just a little farther.
The ice cream would wait for last, because the freezers were close to the register, and I didn’t want it melting as I wandered around.
When I got there, I tried to remember if dad preferred a particular brand of ice cream.
There were several brands to choose from, so I finally settled on the one whose price landed in the middle.
Just as I was opening the door to the case, I felt the hair on my arms stand at attention.
At first, I thought it was because of the cold air rushing out.
But that wasn’t it at all.
“Anna. I thought that was you!”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
“Yes, it’s me.” Forcing a smile, I asked, “How have you been, Mr. Sherwood?”
“Alan, remember?”
My smile grew thinner—because I just as well could have reminded him for the hundredth time that I preferred Lise to Anna .
I was certain it was because he thought it was a cute little nickname that only he called me.
And I’d forgotten just how intense those mildly creepy vibes I always felt when I was around him were.
I hadn’t missed that sensation at all.
“What a stroke of luck to see you here.” Although I wouldn’t say it out loud, I didn’t see any luck in it at all.
Most of the instructors on campus either had Fridays off or had longer one-day-a-week lectures that day.
This wasn’t the first time I’d run into Mr.
Sherwood at the store on a Friday, making me wonder if he lingered here on purpose for this very reason.
Not to “run into” me , of course, but any other young women.
“You never called me.”
Nor would I.
Ever.
I tried to remember exactly what I’d texted him as an excuse.
“I don’t have a lot of free time—”
“I know. You said that. But there were some developments with the lab that I thought you should know about.”
Even though I knew it was possible that this was just Mr.
Sherwood’s way of stealing my attention for as long as possible, there was something about the way he’d said it that made me curious.
“What?”
“They never came out and said it, but it’s clear that the damage wasn’t nearly as extensive as they’d made it seem. Or, should I say, as they made you believe .”
“If they never said it, how would you know?”
“All the repairs were done before the beginning of the fall semester.”
What?
I could believe my ears.
“Done?”
“Yes. I knew you didn’t know that. It was completely finished by the first week. Students have been using the lab like nothing ever happened.”
He continued talking, but I barely heard him.
What did all this mean?
More than that, the question I wanted answered was something Mr.
Sherwood couldn’t tell me: Did Sinclair know?
When I finally tuned back into his voice, Mr.
Sherwood said, “This is a good thing, because you probably won’t have to work as long to pay those bastards off. And I’m glad…because I’ve missed you.”
I was still in shock, so my stupid tongue simply replied, “Same here.” Why had I said that?
It would simply encourage his behavior.
But he continued.
“How much were the Whittiers going to make you pay?”
“Not an amount, but time. Ten years.”
He was silent for just a few seconds.
“Think about it, Anna. The cost of those repairs couldn’t possibly have required you to give up ten years of your life. This is just another way the Whittiers are throwing their weight around.”
I wanted nothing more than to get away from him in order to process what he’d told me—so I simply said, “I’m going to be attending the University of Denver in the spring, and I plan to get a master’s degree too, so I’ll be there a while anyway.”
But would I?
Everything now was in doubt.
Mr.
Sherwood said, “Ah, but UCCS would be less expensive—and closer to home.”
Why did he think Winchester felt like home to me?
Not that Denver did, especially after his news.
And he didn’t even know the degrees I would be pursuing.
I spat out, “I don’t know about that.” But my brain was still whirring.
Why was he manipulating me?
Maybe I’d never recognized it before, but it was clear that he was now—and I needed to get away from him.
Standing beside him, I had an overwhelming sensation of being smothered.
“I’m sorry. I have to go. My dad had an infusion yesterday—”
“How’s he doing?”
“All right, but I need to get back to check on him. I’d just wanted to grab a few things to make him a special meal.”
“You’re such a good daughter.”
But already I was wheeling the cart away.
Shit.
The rocky road ice cream.
Turning, I peeked in the case and noticed the most expensive brand practically staring me in the face.
Well, dad was worth it—and so was I.
I wasn’t about to go backwards.
Pulling the door open, I grabbed it and said, “Nice to see you, Mr. Sherwood. Take care.”
“ Alan ,” he insisted, but I was already rolling down the aisle toward checkout.
I’d never been so angry in my entire life.
Maybe it was because dad was tired or maybe I’d become a better actress (meaning liar ) since living in Sinclair’s mansion.
Or maybe it was the meal itself combined with his fatigue—but my father hadn’t had a clue that I felt angry and betrayed.
I really had put on a good act, and I’d been able to take out my anger on the eggs I’d beaten before adding them to the cheese mixture.
It was the kind of meal that took a lot of wind out of me so that, by the time I called Sinclair, I was fairly calm.
Fairly.
He’d been expecting my call because I’d sent him a text message letting him know I needed to talk to him.
Because we hadn’t spoken the night before, he might have thought I was simply giving him an update on dad’s progress.
Once dad was in bed, I stepped into the backyard.
Unlike the night I’d taken a walk to speak to him on the phone, I suspected my voice might get a little louder—and with the way people in this town felt about my dad and me, I didn’t need to give them any reason to report me to the police.
The windows to dad’s bedroom were on the side and front of the house, so I hoped he would never be the wiser.
But this conversation had to happen.
When Sinclair answered the phone, he asked, “How’s your father?”
“Tired but recovering. But that’s not why I called.”
“Oh?” His voice had a tinge of curiosity and even a little expectation.
Clearly he hadn’t read my tone.
Or maybe I really was becoming better at hiding my feelings.
I knew, though, that I’d had plenty of practice growing up, never wanting kids knowing how much they’d hurt me, hoping that would make it less fun for them picking on me.
And I’d been honing those skills since moving into Sinclair’s mansion.
“I ran into one of my professors today at the grocery store. He said the simulation lab at WCC’s been finished since August.”
“It has.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His voice was as calm as mine, but I could hear something in the tone changing—and I could almost picture his face.
I imagined his cold blue eyes turning steely, his brow furrowing.
“Would that have changed anything?”
“It changes everything. You lied to me! ”
“I didn’t lie. I simply didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
My anger was shifting to hurt—betrayal and pain—and that helped me turn up the anger.
“But why?”
“Because it didn’t change anything, Lise. The repairs had to be done—and, by getting them done so quickly, the college is able to make money, not to mention that it’s up and running for dozens of students who could benefit from it. Leona had crews working round the clock so it could be ready by Monday morning of the fall semester.”
“Did the repairs cost as much as you’d projected?” I’d already spent the evening crunching various numbers in my head.
Over and over when this had first happened, they’d told me the project cost well over a million dollars—but something I’d failed to consider was how much it would cost to repair.
For all I knew, it wouldn’t cost as much.
Something I’d considered after my conversation with Mr.
Sherwood.
“We got lucky. They didn’t cost as much as anticipated.”
“ How much? ” But did the actual amount really matter?
“Do I really owe you ten years’ worth of work?”
“I thought we’d moved past that. You’ll be going to school and—”
But it all rushed through my head so quickly: the damned contract, the humiliation and thousands of tears I’d cried, feeling like I was a square peg, a misfit—and I wondered: was this all simply so he could toy with me?
Not just for sex but for power?
For revenge?
“Really? Moved past that? I was the one who ripped up the contract, not you.”
“When is the last time I referred to it?”
“Why does that even matter? You didn’t have to refer to it because you and I both knew it existed. We both knew what was on it. And I was eagerly playing the part of your obedient little slave girl!”
His voice sounded hurt—but if I’d become such a good actress, surely he had it in himself as well.
“You can’t believe that.”
But I did.
And I felt so ashamed that I’d been such a willing victim, been so eager to find any excuse in my head to make it okay.
But it wasn’t okay.
I had a chance to make things right now, and I’d accept the consequences, whatever they would be.
“We are done , Sinclair. Done. ” Before he could say another word, I hung up.
If this meant I’d have to face a judge, I’d gladly do it.
I knew now I was in the right—and my supposed relationship with this man had been full of lies and deceit.
I’d been so stupid to have allowed myself to have fallen in love with him.
I sat outside on the old swing set, squeezing into a seat that could barely accommodate my adult body, breathing in the cold air, ignoring how my phone lit up with silent calls and text messages.
Tomorrow, I’d tell him he could send someone to pick up his car but tonight I had far too many tears I had to work through.
This was all over now…
but instead of feeling relief, I felt more hurt and betrayed than I ever had in my entire life.