1. Knox #2
I’d started tracking her the week David Thorne was sentenced.
I was standing in the courthouse parking lot watching Helen hold her daughter upright while the press shoved toward them, and something twisted inside me that I still couldn’t describe.
It wasn’t sympathy. I had no room for that back then.
Something more visceral than sympathy. Some need to know she was accounted for, that she was somewhere I could find her if I had to.
Even if back then, the reasons weren’t for anything good.
I didn’t give a shit about why. I just knew every time I opened that app and saw the little blue dot where I expected it to be, relief washed over me.
And here I was still checking it twice a day, sometimes more. A bad habit I had no intention of breaking.
“Seriously, though.” Owen set his phone down and reached for his wine, continuing as if we’d been conversing this entire time. “What do you think this is? Mom looked off when I got here.”
“She always looks off.”
He threw me a look.
“I don’t know.” I turned my glass slowly on the tablecloth. “Some fresh new hell for us to deal with, probably.”
His frown was short-lived, but for that split second, it was real. I tried to hide the joy I felt to see a small crack in all his ease. “I hope it has nothing to do with me.”
My mother appeared in the doorway a moment later, a serving dish in each hand, walking slowly. Who knew if it was because she was high, or because she was being careful. Or maybe she was trying not to draw attention to herself. With her, I could never tell.
Owen was on his feet before I could even get a word out.
“Mom, let me help.” He was already crossing the room, reaching for one of the dishes.
“I’ve got it.” She angled away from him, redistributing the weight. “Sit down, honey.”
“You sure? I don’t mind—”
“Sit.” It was a soft command but with just enough edge to end the discussion. She set the dishes on the table herself, straightening them. Then she took a breath, smoothed the front of her shirt, and took her seat without looking at either of us.
Owen shrugged and sat back down, reaching for his wine again.
I watched her arrange her napkin in her lap, move her silverware from one side to the other, avoiding making eye contact with either of us.
Something was super fucking weird tonight.
The office door opened down the hall.
My father’s footsteps were unmistakable. Heavy and purposeful, the walk of a man who’d spent thirty years making sure every person in a room knew when he’d entered it.
As a kid, I used to get excited to hear those steps.
It meant Dad was home. He was here to play with us, or to take us for dinner or ice cream.
Dad was done with work for the day. Anticipation would ramp up, starting with a buzz in my chest, spreading to my limbs, until he’d come into the room with a smile on his face.
He’d ruffle my hair, or pick up Owen and swing him around.
He’d ask us about our day and we’d excitedly tell him about practice, or cub scouts, or a test we passed.
It’s unbelievable how time and situations change people.
My father appeared in the doorway with his jacket still on, tie loosened at the collar, and scanned the table. His eyes landed on me last.
“Good,” he said. “You’re both here.”
He pulled out his chair and plopped down like his legs were too tired to hold him another second. He reached for the wine, poured a full glass, and set the bottle back down just out of Owen’s reach.
Owen caught my eye across the table. A silent acknowledgement that we were both trying to read his mood.
I looked back at my father and kept my mouth shut.
“Smells good, Vicki. You must have been working hard in the kitchen,” he said, appraising the platters in front of him.
My mother smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”
Every time she called him dear or smiled at him, a vision of him with his hands all over Helen Thorne assaulted my mind and I had to shove it away.
Owen reached to pull the platter of chicken toward him and served himself. He clinked the serving spoon against the dish, giving me that nails on chalkboard feeling. “So what’s the occasion?”
He passed the platter to my father, and he took his share before answering. “I’ve been in talks with a man named Vince Moretti. We’re moving forward with a partnership.”
Owen and I both looked up—me, from scooping a helping of mashed potatoes onto my plate.
“Moretti?” Owen asked. “Why have I heard that name?”
My father cut into his chicken before answering.
“He runs a development holding company out of the city. He’s got political connections.
Union relationships that would take us a decade to build on our own.
” He set his knife down. “You’ve probably heard the name because he’s a big shot. Everyone who’s anyone knows Moretti.”
Owen accepted that with a small nod, reaching for his wine.
But I’d heard the name for different reasons. None of them good. Moretti was a name that got mentioned in whispered conversations around Ashford, and then dropped just as fast, like if you held his name in your throat too long, you’d choke.
I turned my fork over in my hand, waiting for my father to go on.
“Working with him means we get access to contracts we’ve been locked out of for years. City projects. Infrastructure. Jobs that’ll put this company back where it belongs.” He reached for his wine. “Exactly what we need to rebuild our reputation.”
“And what does he get from us?” I asked, cutting through the crap.