Page 72 of Crash Course
For a few seconds, he simply stared at her, the pink in his cheeks retreated as his lips quirked. Cilla’s pulse knocked back and she let out a breath. Maybe this wouldn’t be the shitshow she’d expected.
"Let me ask you something," Dad said.
"Of course."
He nodded, then sat forward. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"
"What? No! Of course not."
"Well, you must since you think I don’t know what’s going on in my own goddamned company."
His cheeks hardened and the heat returned to his eyes, lighting them up like lasers pointed straight at her.
"Dad, that’s not it at all. It’s a big company. You can’t keep your eye on everything."
He picked up the report, balled it and whipped it at her.Whoa!She swatted it down and let it hit the floor.
"Dad! What the hell?"
A mix of heartbreak and . . . yes . . . anger pelted her. She fought back a rush of tears and locked her jaw against the attack of emotions.
He stood and jabbed—jab, jab, jab—his finger at her.
"If I need your help," Dad fumed, "I’ll ask for it. Stay the fuck out of this, Cilla. Whatever you’re doing, stop. Paul is on it."
Cilla stiffened. It wouldn’t be the first time Dad had dropped an f-bomb in her presence, but it sure as hell was the first time he’d directed it at her.
And the door was wide open. Anyone in the executive suite, including Paul, could hear them.
However, she might capitalize on Dad’s inappropriate behavior. When his temper flashed, he got loose lips. She’d witnessed it hundreds of times.
She gripped the e-mails under her thigh and stood, kicking the balled report out of her path. "You said Paul is on it. How?"
The color in his cheeks fired again, his fury whipping back around. "What did I just say?"
Oh boy. Never had she pushed his buttons like this. Never. But Brittney Tate and her parents deserved answers.
Locking her gaze on his, Cilla readied herself for the next round. "Dad, are you poisoning people in Morgan?"
His eyes bulged and a muscle in his jaw jumped. "Get out of my office," he said, his voice carrying the rough edge of shattered concrete. "Right now."
His hand sliced through the air, the move so violent and fast, Cilla flinched. Dammit. He’d never once put a hand on her. That flinch? No idea where it had come from, but she’d broken her cardinal battle rule.
She’d shown weakness. Dad? He exploited weakness. Carved it into tiny pieces. And she'd just handed it to him.
Stepping sideways, away from the chair blocking her path to the door, she waited for another blast of temper. For his denial that would surely come.
Something inside Cilla, hope maybe, disintegrated. Dropped like a brick from seventeen stories.
No denial. He knew.
At some point, she’d have to process this. Force herself to accept that he’d obliterated the boundaries she thought he’d never cross.
He knew about the PFOA. What else did he know? Was Randolph Industries knowingly polluting the environment?
All that fear and sickness tearing her apart morphed into swarming anger that fired her own temper. She’d come this far. Might as well push a little more. "Dad, what are you hiding?"
A guttural roar sounded. His eyes blazed, the look so evil, it should have burned the building down. He picked up the brass football paperweight sitting on his desk and hurled it. Not at her, sideways and into the wall, just inches from the framed painting of the flagship Randolph factory. The paperweight dropped, leaving a gouge in the wall, and hit the floor with an echoing clunk.
