Hush (Black Lotus #3) (24 page)

“He runs his own firm,” he says. “We’ve got a point of contact now.”

“Do we just call him?”

“No. We need to find a way to get him to come to us. But, listen, we have to be careful about this. Whatever he’s hiding from is big. I mean, your case worker, a state employee, came to you and told you he died. The man even has a grave site, right?”

“Yes. In Illinois,” I say. “I went to the cemetery. He has a gravestone and everything.”

“So, this isn’t some man who just skipped town. This is a man who needed to kill his identity.”

“How do we do this?”

Declan takes a moment to think and then pulls out his phone. “I’ll just schedule a meeting with him. There’s nothing that links you and me that he would be able to find out about. We’ve never even been photographed together.”

I nod, and when he dials, I tell him, “Put it on speakerphone,” because I need to hear his voice.

With each ring, my pulse quickens, and then the line connects.

“Enterprise Brokerage and Realty, how can I help you?”

“Is Asher Corre available?” Declan asks, his accent seeming to catch the woman off guard.

“Oh . . . um, yes. Whom shall I say is calling?” she says, and I roll my eyes at Declan when her whole voice changes in reaction to his voice.

“You can tell him this is Declan McKinnon with McKinnon International Development.”

“Just one moment.”

I’m practically holding my breath while we wait, and then he picks up the call, his voice crystal clear.

“Asher Corre here.”

I bring my hands to cover my mouth when I hear the voice I never thought I’d hear again.

“Good afternoon. This is Declan McKinnon, owner of McKinnon International Development. I have to excuse the short notice, but I’m in town for a few days and was hoping to discuss a possible land purchase for commercial development.”

“What line of commercial development are you in?”

“Hospitality on the high-end scale.”

“So I see. I just pulled you up on my computer. McKinnon, is that of Scottish descent?” he asks Declan, and I can’t believe he’s actually having a conversation with my dad. Declan responds, and then my father continues, “I can start pulling some locations to email you?”

“Call me old-fashioned, but I hope you don’t mind my preference to conduct business in person rather than over the phone. I want to establish that you’re the right man to be working with. After all, if a purchase is made, you’ll be receiving a substantial commission. I want to make sure it’s going to someone with integrity.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. I’ll tell you what, how does your evening look tonight?”

“I have a few emails that need attending to, but other than that, I’m free.”

“Would six o’clock work?”

“That works. I’ve had a tiring couple of days, so why don’t we meet at The Pearl’s Edge where I’m staying. I’m in the Presidential suite.”

He doesn’t even hesitate when he responds, “I’ll see you at six, Mr. McKinnon.”

I watch Declan end the call and set the phone down. “His voice . . .” I start and then lose my words.

“Are you okay?”

I can’t speak for a while as I try to digest hearing my father on the phone. It doesn’t even feel real, and to know that he’ll be here in only a few hours is something I’m unable to process.

“Darling?”

“I never thought I’d hear that voice again. I believed it was gone forever, and now . . .”

“I know. You don’t have to try to put it into words.”

“I don’t even know how to feel. One minute I’m relieved he’s alive, and the next I’m so furious. But now, he’s coming here, and I’m excited and terrified.”

“There’s no right way to feel. I think the most important thing is to allow yourself to feel it all,” he says.

“I just need you to hold me right now,” I tell him.

I curl up in his arms and close my eyes while he runs his hands up and down my back. I open myself up to his comfort and take all I can. It’s a myriad of extremities in my heart and head, but somehow, Declan is powerful enough to temper the storm in me.

His warmth is able to relax me enough that eventually I drift off, and when I wake, he’s still holding me. I look out the windows and see the sky rippled in waves of pinks and oranges.

“How are you feeling?” Declan asks softly.

My voice is sleepy when I respond, “That’s a hard question to answer.”

He leans down and kisses me. “Why don’t you freshen up before he gets here?”

What does one wear when they meet their dead father for the first time after twenty-three years? After I shower, I dig through my suitcases that I never got around to unpacking yesterday and pull out a pair of black pants and a flowy green top. I busy myself, focusing on making sure I look nice for him; maybe it’s me subconsciously distracting myself or maybe it’s because I honestly want to look pretty for my dad.

I don’t really know.

I dry my hair and fix it with free-flowing waves and then apply my usual light makeup and sweep a little gloss across my lips. I slip on a pair of black flats before giving myself a lookover in the mirror.

My stomach twists in nervousness. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him or how I’m going to react. I’ve dreamt endlessly about magically getting my dad back, and now that it’s here and it’s real, I’m suddenly terrified.

“You look perfect.”

When I turn to Declan leaning against the threshold, I give him a tight smile. “Are you sure?” I ask, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“I know you’re nervous and worried, but try not to psych yourself out.”

“What if I can’t do this?”

“And what if you can?” he counters. “Come here.”

I walk into his arms and hold on to him.

“You’re trembling,” he notes. “Why don’t I get you a drink to help with your nerves?”

I follow him into the living room and before we make it over to the wet bar, there’s a knock on the door.

Stopping dead in my tracks, all the air is sucked out of my lungs, and I’m momentarily paralyzed. Declan looks back to me, and I’m in shock.

“That’s him.”

MY WHOLE BODY
freezes, and I swear my heart skips a beat or two. I’m wide-eyed as Declan looks at me. I can’t speak. My skin pricks in goose bumps

Declan places his hands on my cheeks and tells me with sure-fire intensity, “You can do this.”

Nodding my head, I speak around the lump lodged in my throat. “Don’t let go of me.”

“I won’t.”

Hand in hand, we walk over to the door. Each step I take feels like a marathon’s worth of strides. My heart tremors, pumping erratically beneath my bones.

Another knock.

I reach out my jittery hand, and a wave of nausea hits hard when I hold my breath and open the door.

It’s him.

His eyes meet mine, and I can’t speak. I can literally reach out and touch him, but I don’t. I’m too scared he might disappear if I make any sudden movements. He looks at me in confusion. His eyes give a little flick, and I wonder if there’s maybe a hint of recognition.

“Dad.”

My voice falters and his eyes widen in curiosity, but it’s when that very look morphs into astonishment that I know he knows. In one fluid movement, he takes a step towards me and pulls me into his arms.

“Oh, my God,” he breathes in disbelief, and I wrap my free arm around him as the tears start falling. “Elizabeth?”

“It’s me, Dad,” I tell him as my emotions swell to ungodly proportions.

His hold on me is the strongest I’ve felt in my whole life. And all of a sudden, my fears, my reservations, my hatred, it vanishes. Declan lets go of my other hand, and I cling it around my dad. His back quakes in my hold, and I hear the click of Declan closing the door as the two of us cry.

He cradles my head in his deft hand, the same way he did when I was a little girl, and chokes out, “My baby princess.”

He draws back, bracing my head in his hands, and scans my face.

“My God, you’re
so
beautiful,” he says thickly.

His words mend wounds, and when my face crumples in sobs, I drop my head and he pulls me back against his chest. My body heaves as I release years and years of agony. I want to speak a thousand words, but I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop clinging. I simply can’t let go.

“Let me look at you again,” he says when he pulls back and dips his head down to my level.

He’s blurry colors and lines, and when I blink, he comes into clarity only to be dissolved all over again. Tears continue to flood and fall as he wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. My hands clutch to his sides, and I painfully weep. “I’ve missed you so much, Dad.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve missed you even more. The pain of losing you . . . I feel it every second of every day.”

“Then why? Why didn’t you ever come for me?”

“Oh, princess,” he sighs, hanging his head. “I wanted to. So many times I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Something inside me shifts, and all the pain and anger begins to rise through the enormous joy I feel from being in his arms. It collides and battles, and when he looks up at me, I take a step back and snap, “You just left me!”

Declan takes my hand as my father stares at me, drowning in visible shame.

“Darling . . .”

“I needed you,” I sling at him. “I’ve needed you since the day I lost you!”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Why don’t we sit down and talk?”

I turn to Declan, shaking my head, and he encourages, “Nothing you say will be wrong. I won’t let you fall apart, okay?”

Leaning my head against his chest, he strokes my hair back and kisses my head before placing his hand on my back. “Let’s go sit.”

We walk over to the living room, and I take a seat next to my dad on the couch as Declan sits on the other side of me, extending his hand out to my dad, saying, “I’m Declan, by the way.”

My father shakes his hand, responding, “Asher.”

“That’s
not
your name,” I accuse, my voice still shuddering through consuming emotions as I look into his eyes. I try with everything I have to pull myself together, but I can’t stop the deluge of new tears that fall.

Declan places his hand on my leg, and my dad holds my two hands in his. I watch as he takes in a deep breath before saying, “I’m not sure what to say or where to begin. I never thought I’d ever be sitting next to you, looking into your eyes, holding your hands, hearing your voice.”

“You could’ve been. All these years, you could’ve had me. But instead, you left me to battle this world on my own.”

“You have to believe me when I tell you that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“But you did it anyway.”

He drops his head again, and I can see his eyes well up.

“I need you to tell me why,” I insist. “I need to know why you abandoned me.”

“I didn’t abandon you, sweetheart.”

He blinks and a couple tears skitter down his aged cheeks.

“You did!” I lash out, yanking my hands from his. “You’re here! Alive! And living a fucking lie!” I suck in a ragged breath, stand up, and pace across the room before crying out, “You have a whole family! I saw them! A son and a fucking daughter!” Gripping my head with my hands, I stand and face him. “You just . . . you just replaced me as if I never existed. As if I never even mattered.”

“No one could
ever
replace you,” he asserts, standing up and walking over to me.

“I’m just a forgotten nobody.”

“I’ve never forgotten you,” he says as he starts to unbutton the top of his dress shirt. “You’ve always been with me.”

As his collar and shirt begin to fall open, I see the ink of a tattoo, and when he exposes his chest, I stop breathing.

There, across the span of his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, is my name branded on his skin in large script.

“Even if I wanted to, I could never forget about you.”

I reach out and run my fingers over the letters of my name. “When did you . . . ?”

“Shortly after I was sent to prison. I had my cellmate do it.”

I press my hand to his chest and feel his heart beat into my palm.

“I don’t understand. They told me you died in there.”

He buttons his shirt back up, asking, “Will you let me explain?”

I nod and he holds my hand as we walk back over to the couch where Declan is still sitting. My father keeps my hand in his and Declan wraps his arm around my waist as I face my dad.

“They told you why I went to prison, right?”

“Gun trafficking.”

He nods. “Seven years into my sentence, the feds came to meet with me. It seems that one of the guns was used to assassinate four government officials from the United States Gun Trafficking Task Force while they were in Argentina to bust one of their bigger drug cartels,” he explains. “All the guns that went through me were inspected to ensure the serial numbers had been properly shaved off, but when you’re working with the street runners, mistakes are bound to happen. Anyway, the feds offered me a plea deal. I hand over the names in exchange for an immediate release. I knew the risk, but I would’ve walked through a firing squad to get you back,” he says fervently, and I strengthen my hold on his hand.

“So what happened?”