Page 92 of Crash Course
"Hello."
Dad’s voice. From behind her. In the middle of the towering hallway, she spun back, spotted him walking toward her among a handful of other folks.
She stood still, briefcase in hand until he reached her. He leaned in, gave her their customary cheek peck. "Morning."
Yesterday, he’d hurled a paperweight and thrown her out of his office. Today? Like nothing ever happened.
Life with Dad.
The entire thing exhausted her. Made her feel . . . small. And she despised that. This must have been how her mother felt. Always on alert. Waiting for the next eruption from her moody and volatile husband.
Cilla took a tiny step back, putting just enough distance between them to look straight into his eyes. "I’m surprised to see you here after our argument yesterday."
He shrugged his beefy shoulders in that "eh" way he used when either stalling or screwing people. Here, she hadn’t figured out which. Could be both.
"You know me," he said, keeping his voice light. "I support you. Thought I’d see you in action." He held his hand to the courtroom doors. "Rough day for the defense. What’s your plan?"
"Aside from figuring out how a done deal went off the rails?"
The corner of Dad’s mouth quirked. "Aside from that."
Not wanting bystanders overhearing the conversation, Cilla pulled Dad off to a nook of useless space at the end of the corridor.
"I’m confused," she said. "Nagle is always so reasonable. And that was a fair deal."
"He must not have liked something."
Ya think? She’d mentioned to Dad the day before that Nagle, his golfing buddy, had been sick.
"You and Judge Nagle are friends," Cilla said. "Have you talked to him?"
"Huh," Dad said.
That was his response? No useful information that might help her. Just "huh." Could he have . . .
No way. Screwing with people was one thing. This was her client’s freedom in jeopardy.
Still, Nagle’s rejection was so completely out of character. Someone had to have influenced him. Someone like Darren Randolph, who made it a mission to know juicy details about anyone who might, at some point, prove helpful.
Plus, her father enjoyed vengeance. If he felt he’d been wronged, look out. He took fantastic pleasure in showing folks just how much power and influence he wielded. She’d known this for years, witnessed it with her own mother.
Sweat pooled in her palms, the slick surface making her briefcase slip. She squeezed the handle tighter. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
She focused on his eyes, on holding his gaze and forcing him to look at her. "Are you messing with my cases to get back at me for yesterday?"
He cocked one eyebrow. "Now, Cilla, is that a nice thing to say? After all I’ve done for you?"
No denial. No outrage over her accusation.
The hot stab of pain shot through her ribcage.Stab, stab, stab.She breathed through it, concentrated on her father’s eyes and not on the betrayal.
Not on the fact that a man she’d loved forever, despite his flaws, and who supposedly adored her, could do this.
She shook her head, let out a soft huff. "Dad, I’ve done nothing but try to help and protect you."
"As have I."
