Page 64 of Worth the Try
“Yay!” she answers, her little face lighting up in the rearview mirror.
I weave through a few streets before getting to the interstate, the man in the car still following me. But I’ve picked this entrance on purpose, knowing it forces cars to stop one after the other before entering the merge lane, and I floor it. I weave into the congestion, driving my Honda as fast as I safely can, praying I’ll lose the other car in the heavy Atlanta traffic.
It works, but I don’t slow down. My hands shake as I pull into the Granite’s headquarters, and it takes all my strength to act like everything is fine as she grips onto my hand again, skipping into the entrance.
“Let’s go see Kari first, yeah? Daddy’s probably working very hard right now.”
She nods, and we take the elevator to the top floor.
Kari’s bright smile falters when she sees my face, but she recovers quickly. “What a surprise!” she exclaims, rising and walking around her desk to give Rosie a big hug. Rising, she pulls me into an embrace. “You okay?” she murmurs.
“We were followed, and I didn’t know what to do,” I mutter back.
She stiffens, then leans back to study me. “He’s pretty famous, Elodie,” she says, her voice low.
My gut clenches. “But we weren’t with him,” I point out. “It was me and his daughter. Inmycar.”
Her eyes widen, and she nods. “Okay. You’re right. I think the team might be finishing up, but let me check the news? See if something’s going on that would have warranted it?”
I shake my head. “This wasn’t sports paparazzi, Kari. I know it wasn’t.”
After studying me for a moment, she relents. “Okay. If it wasn’t a pap, then…”
“Then who was it? And why?” Dread courses through me.
Kari raises an eyebrow. When I still don’t speak, she seems to make a decision. “How about you two go raid the snack room while I see if I can find your dad, Rosalie?”
She nods happily at Kari, then looks up at me while hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “Come on, Elle Belle. I know my way around,” she says proudly.
Defeated, yet not really able to articulate why, I let Rosie lead me out while Kari heads down the stairs two at a time.
They must have been showering, because when Ansel walks in, his hair is wet and his heather-gray Granite shirt is clinging to him in wet splotches. He eats up the distance, going straight to where Rosie sits, separating Skittles into little piles by color. Lennox is right behind him, followed by Kari.
“Hi, Daddy!” Rosalie says, her feet swinging on the chair. “Want the orange ones?”
“Of course I do,” he answers, holding his palm out as he kneels beside her. She drops the candy into his hand, counting each piece as she goes, while he looks over every inch of her, seeking out any potential harm. It’s only when she’s finished counting ten candies into his waiting hand that he’s satisfied she’s safe. “Thank you, Rosie,” he says, rising and planting a kiss on the top of her head while pocketing the Skittles.
Then he turns to me. And I don’t know what it is that he sees in my expression, but anguish passes over his own before he schools it away. Stepping toward me, he asks, “Are you okay?”
The question makes my throat tight with emotion. Emotion over the way his first concern was his daughter, and then for me. Not a demand to know what happened. Not a reprimand for coming here. Nothing but genuine concern.
And it shouldn’t, but his reaction nearly undoes me. Tears spring to my eyes.
Ansel comes closer, murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He brings his hands to my face, thumbing away the tears as they spill. When I can’t stop crying, he pulls me into his arms and holds me there, gently rocking us while I take a moment to fall apart.
But I can’t wallow, especially when I can’t even explain what just happened. I sniff and make myself step back, aware that Rosalie doesn’t need to see us and wonder what’s going on. Wiping my face and taking a deep breath, I blow it out and meet Ansel’s eyes as Kari and Lennox hover in my periphery.
“We were followed,” I start.
“Iknow.” Ansel’s voice is low and angry.
“Easy, man,” Lennox cuts in, putting a hand on Ansel’s arm.
The touch seems to relax him, and he exhales roughly. “Sorry.”
I dive in, giving them the story quickly. There isn’t much to tell, it turns out, but even though I have only the barest idea of what the man looked like, I tell them the make and model of the car.
Meanwhile, Ansel’s gone from mad to nearly apoplectic, coiled and ready to spring. “And you lost him on the interstate?” he asks for the third time.
