Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
The article. “Did you see it?” If they had, then they would know she’d been in America for nearly a year now. That the postcard from France had been faked. They would know exactly why she’d left all those years ago and how close she’d come to destroying her father’s career.
No, she hadn’t come close. It was official. With her crimes now publicized, Saffi had single-handedly destroyed his life’s passion.
“It’s difficult to ignore,” her mother said. “Everyone’s been sending it to us.”
Red-hot shame burned through Saffi. “You weren’t supposed to—I didn’t want you to—”
She didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Hushed whispering on the other end of the line. Her father must be nearby. Saffi braced herself for questions she wouldn’t know how to answer.
“You know this will affect his campaign,” her mother began slowly. “He’s Arizona’s only Indian senator, you know they’re looking for any excuse to make his life difficult. Even if they don’t remove him from office, he’ll never be reelected. This will be his legacy.”
This was exactly the kind of thing Saffi used to dig up about her father’s political opponents.
It had been so easy to judge them when she was younger.
If you’re going to run for office, at least use a more secure format than email to accept bribes.
Maybe check your children into rehab instead of waiting for them to get a DUI.
She’d seen enough of them to know that this was the kind of scandal no one ever came back from.
“I know. I know, that’s why I left. I was trying to protect you from my mistakes—”
“Protect us?” her father’s voice cut in. He wasn’t angry, no, never angry. He was the prosecutor, forever molding your words into weapons against yourself. “How can you say that when your carelessness killed someone?”
“A jury convicted them—”
“With evidence that you gathered,” he said. “And instead of facing up to the consequences, you decided to deceive us for five years.”
She should’ve known better than to try and explain. It was him who’d first introduced her to the concept of good and bad, of just and unjust—far beyond the expectation of a father’s teachings.
But Saffi knew better now. The law was far from just. If it was as righteous as her father claimed, then Hector Olsen wouldn’t be walking free. Chris Porter wouldn’t have gotten away with a slap on the wrist. Saffi and Dimple wouldn’t be suffering more than anyone else in their shoes would be.
“I thought I raised you better than to blame others for your own actions,” he said.
“You can’t control what she does,” Saffi heard her mother say in the background. She sounded so tired. “Children grow up to make their own mistakes.”
“I raised her,” her father said. “I’m not a hypocrite. I’m willing to accept my part of the blame in this.”
“What can I do to make this right?” Saffi asked, unable to keep the desperation from coming through in her tone.
Her father had never been one for punishments that didn’t teach something. If she broke her mother’s favorite vase, she had to pay for it. If she called someone names on the playground, she had to apologize until she was forgiven.
“You don’t get a plea bargain after evading arrest,” her father said. “You should have thought about that before running away. What were you hoping to achieve?”
But he was supposed to know the answer. He was supposed to tell her how to fix everything, just like he always did.
“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” she said.
“Don’t you see how much worse it is now? Maybe if you would’ve faced the consequences then, things would’ve been different.”
Saffi scoffed. “Can you seriously say you would’ve wanted me to be at the center of a scandal like that?”
“I would’ve been proud to see I raised a daughter who owned up to her mistakes.”
Proud.
Saffi’s father had never once said he was proud of her.
Not when she got into Harvard. Not when she graduated top of her class.
Not even when she’d gotten her PI license.
The one time he chose to say it, it was in reference to some alternate, idealized version of herself.
The filial daughter that she never was and never would be.
“And what now?” Saffi asked, voice thick with emotion.
Her father took his time responding, as though consulting his notes.
“You’ve had five years, Saffi. It will take time for us to process.
” Like a goddamn fax machine. “It’s not just about you.
I have the campaign to think of. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing once in the past hour.
I don’t even want to know what the media’s saying. ”
Your Honor, the prosecution will rest and request a brief recess.
It shouldn’t have surprised her, but Saffi hated when her father treated her like an extension of his job.
When she was younger, she’d been a glorified paralegal.
Now she was opposing counsel who had just brought up a point he hadn’t been prepared for.
Considering how good he’d been at destroying his opponents—both politically and in the courtroom—Saffi wasn’t sure she wanted to stick around to see what his plan of action would be.
Saffi didn’t cry. She didn’t get angry either.
The numbness had never left, and she was beginning to think it never would.
Her father, the very man who’d taught her the meaning of justice, had declared her immoral.
Judge, jury, executioner, he was all three in one.
And she wasn’t even the first item on his agenda. A single thought ran through her mind.
Dimple had been right.
There was no such thing as unconditional love.
—
Saffi felt stripped raw by the time she joined Taylor in the hallway.
“Atlas isn’t picking up my calls,” Taylor said.
He didn’t mention her parents, somehow sensing that she didn’t want to talk about it, which Saffi was grateful for.
It probably helped that there were other things to worry about.
Because if Andino was screening even Taylor’s calls, it couldn’t just be grief keeping him away.
Saffi kept inadvertently glancing around in search of him.
Instead, her attention landed on a red envelope sitting on a table beside the office’s entrance.
“What’s this?” she asked, picking it up.
“It came in earlier,” he said. “I think it’s for Atlas, he opened it.”
The handwriting on the front was the most beautiful cursive Saffi had ever seen. There was no return address, but it was definitely addressed to Saffi Mirai Iyer, not Atlas Andino.
“Could you maybe commit mail fraud later?” Taylor asked, sounding uncharacteristically strained, but Saffi ignored him in favor of ripping the thick envelope apart. She didn’t need to—it was already open—but it felt good.
Inside was a small square of paper. It was heavy, good quality—unlike the hotel room’s memos.
Saffi unfolded it while Taylor, now curious, watched.
If Andino were here, he’d make some sort of quip like, That’s your eviction notice.
Except Andino had already looked through this, hadn’t he? Right before he’d stormed out.
She scanned the text, written in the same neat cursive, and immediately crumpled the paper in her fist, understanding dawning on her. She knew where Andino had gone.
My Dearest Saffi,
I’m sorry.
-D