smartphone, which nestled on top of a towel, behind a log. “You ever seen this guy before?” He held out the phone with a picture of a lean, fit-looking man with short, black hair on the screen. He wore a gray suit. There was a time stamp on the bottom that was about five seconds before her father’s message had been sent.
“No. Who is he?” Her fingers shook as she handed him back the phone.
He draped the towel across his shoulders. “One of the guys who chased Davis into that subway station. The other one wore a ball cap and glasses, not so easily identifiable. This asshole actually grabbed hold of your dad.”
“There was a hang-up after that message he left me.” Her stomach dipped.
“They must have taken his phone. They know he called you.” He cleared his throat but his voice remained gruff. “Just after thatphoto was taken, your dad broke away and fell under a train that was pulling into the station.”
Blood drained from her head and she swayed. Brent caught her elbow, holding her firmly on her feet. He let go of her arm as soon as she was steady.
“He wouldn’t have suffered. He died instantly,” he told her.
Bitterness welled in her throat. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“You bet your ass it is.”
Her hand went to her mouth to hold back sobs as grief rammed her. Her father was dead, and no matter how much he’d hurt or frustrated her in the past, she’d always loved him. Hot tears blurred her vision.
Great
.
She spun away, drawing in huge gasps of air, fighting the onslaught of emotion. Why now? Why not yesterday when she’d been alone for hours? Why not in bed? Why here in the presence of a stranger who’d been closer to her father than she’d been?
Brent didn’t reach for her. He just stood there, watching her fall apart. Intimidating, scary, and grim, but perceptive enough to know she didn’t want to be touched, especially not by a man just as dark and tortured as her father had been. Score one for Brent Carver.
She wiped her cheeks. Stared at the waves that crept up the rim of the beach. Felt as hollowed out as the shell he’d held in his hands. “I need to bury him.”
“The cops are investigating his death. The coroner’s gonna want to keep the body for a while.”
She felt sick. Cold eased into her bones and she shivered despite the heat of the sun. Her relationship with her father had always torn her to shreds, the shackles of love and distrust pulling equally hard in opposite directions. During high school, writing to her dad had become a way of dealing with her life, an escapist fantasy where she got to be in control. By the time she left hometo go to college, her letters had become a habit and almost a diary that helped her cope—a way of communicating with a man she loved but would never trust again. In the end, her letters had been less about her father and more about herself, and that too felt like a betrayal.
Their letters had created the illusion of closeness. She’d known it was an illusion because when her father was released from prison he’d felt like a stranger. And even though she wanted to rebuild those bonds, she could never bring herself to really trust him. That realization had created a distance between them that her father had been unable to breach, no matter how hard he tried.
Now he was dead, and with that bleak reality came a sudden need to honor him. “I have to give the police that voice mail message.”
“No,” said Brent.
“I have to.”
“
Fuck
. No, that’s the last thing you should do.” Brent propped both hands on his head as if to contain his frustration. “Davis wasn’t the sort of guy to scare you for no reason. He loved you. You were the only thing that mattered to him in the whole damn world.”
“Then why couldn’t he keep his hands off other people’s money?” It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He opened his mouth to speak. Cut himself off. Scowled. “Listen, Anna,
“No. Who is he?” Her fingers shook as she handed him back the phone.
He draped the towel across his shoulders. “One of the guys who chased Davis into that subway station. The other one wore a ball cap and glasses, not so easily identifiable. This asshole actually grabbed hold of your dad.”
“There was a hang-up after that message he left me.” Her stomach dipped.
“They must have taken his phone. They know he called you.” He cleared his throat but his voice remained gruff. “Just after thatphoto was taken, your dad broke away and fell under a train that was pulling into the station.”
Blood drained from her head and she swayed. Brent caught her elbow, holding her firmly on her feet. He let go of her arm as soon as she was steady.
“He wouldn’t have suffered. He died instantly,” he told her.
Bitterness welled in her throat. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“You bet your ass it is.”
Her hand went to her mouth to hold back sobs as grief rammed her. Her father was dead, and no matter how much he’d hurt or frustrated her in the past, she’d always loved him. Hot tears blurred her vision.
Great
.
She spun away, drawing in huge gasps of air, fighting the onslaught of emotion. Why now? Why not yesterday when she’d been alone for hours? Why not in bed? Why here in the presence of a stranger who’d been closer to her father than she’d been?
Brent didn’t reach for her. He just stood there, watching her fall apart. Intimidating, scary, and grim, but perceptive enough to know she didn’t want to be touched, especially not by a man just as dark and tortured as her father had been. Score one for Brent Carver.
She wiped her cheeks. Stared at the waves that crept up the rim of the beach. Felt as hollowed out as the shell he’d held in his hands. “I need to bury him.”
“The cops are investigating his death. The coroner’s gonna want to keep the body for a while.”
She felt sick. Cold eased into her bones and she shivered despite the heat of the sun. Her relationship with her father had always torn her to shreds, the shackles of love and distrust pulling equally hard in opposite directions. During high school, writing to her dad had become a way of dealing with her life, an escapist fantasy where she got to be in control. By the time she left hometo go to college, her letters had become a habit and almost a diary that helped her cope—a way of communicating with a man she loved but would never trust again. In the end, her letters had been less about her father and more about herself, and that too felt like a betrayal.
Their letters had created the illusion of closeness. She’d known it was an illusion because when her father was released from prison he’d felt like a stranger. And even though she wanted to rebuild those bonds, she could never bring herself to really trust him. That realization had created a distance between them that her father had been unable to breach, no matter how hard he tried.
Now he was dead, and with that bleak reality came a sudden need to honor him. “I have to give the police that voice mail message.”
“No,” said Brent.
“I have to.”
“
Fuck
. No, that’s the last thing you should do.” Brent propped both hands on his head as if to contain his frustration. “Davis wasn’t the sort of guy to scare you for no reason. He loved you. You were the only thing that mattered to him in the whole damn world.”
“Then why couldn’t he keep his hands off other people’s money?” It was impossible to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He opened his mouth to speak. Cut himself off. Scowled. “Listen, Anna,
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