Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
It's a ruse to make me feel like I've neglected him, and he's suffering because I'm caring for other people, not him. It's a crock, and I won't stand for it. He should have been nicer to me when I was around, but it's too late now.
"Sorry I haven't called, but I've been busy. You know what it's like. New job, new town, that kind of thing," I shrug.
He smiles, and his eyes wander, keenly surveying the room behind me, gleaning information he can use to his benefit. "Looks like you've landed on your feet."
God, I wish I didn't have bad thoughts about my own father. But I've spent a lifetime protecting myself from him. I can't help it, but I'm conflicted.
"It's a comfortable home, and the Woodburns are a nice family."
"Woodburns, huh? You're not qualified for anything, so what type of work are you doing for these people?" He studies me with piercing scrutiny.
"I just help out around the house and run errands. That type of thing," I shrug.
"So let me get this straight. You're a housekeeper. Is that right?"
This conversation is torture. We are tiptoeing around each other, but I know there's a blow coming, and I'm steeling myself for when it lands.
"Yes, Dad." I cross my arms over my chest and huff out a breath, resisting the urge to give him a lecture about what constitutes an honest day's work.
"And tell me about these Woodburns? Is there a man my age in the house?"
Is he trying to get a rise out of me? Making out that I deliberately left home to move in with a man. What's his endgame? Bile rises to the back of my throat, and I'm disturbed by what he's suggesting.
"No, Dad. Mrs. Woodburn is a widow. She's a really nice lady, and it's just her and her son."
"I don't recall you telling me the name of the town."
I didn't tell you because I don't want you to find me.
I fuss with the camera, adjusting the angle of the screen, deliberately brushing my finger over the microphone. "It's an old town, on the edge of a new housing development near sscr…mmphhff…ooods."
"What did you say?" He leans closer to the screen.
"You haven't told me any of your news yet. What happened to that deal you were working on?" I ask, throwing the conversation back to him. "The shipment of—" I don't actually know what he was working on. He never told me.
Slamming a clenched fist on the table, he shouts. "Thieves and liars. All of them!" Frown lines crease his forehead as his brows draw together. "They ripped me off."
His face reddens as his blood pressure rises, his beady-eyed stare pinning me to the spot. "You can't trust anyone these days," he spits.
He may be talking about his work, but the pointed comment is aimed at me. I know what he's like, and I won't fall for his tricks. My dad's a con artist and a scammer. He's always looking for a quick buck, or taking the easy way out.
"You'll sniff out another deal. You're resourceful." I smile sweetly, but his face is granite.
One of the earliest lessons he taught me was that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I didn't understand the deeper meaning when I was younger, but his motives have little to do with being a good person. Everything is about manipulation with him. All he's concerned with is gaining something for nothing.
He's come up with a thousand get-rich-quick schemes, but of course, none of them work because there is no easy way. I believe in honest, hard work, and as long as I try my best, the outcome is irrelevant. Call me naive, but it's what I believe, and it's how I choose to live my life.
Dad squints, concentrating on something in the background. "Is there something you want to tell me, Dahlia?"
Glancing over my shoulder, I see the bedroom door is ajar, but the room is empty like it was a moment ago. I guess he has a sixth sense about these things. Seeing as I'm delaying the inevitable, I may as well fess up. "I've met someone."
"Is that right?" He clenches his jaw, and his gaze darkens. "Who, exactly?"
He's all ears, knowing I wouldn't be telling him if it wasn't important. "He lives in town and works with computers."
I'm not giving him any more information about Draven's work. If he asks more questions, he may put two and two together, and before I know it, he'll be knocking on the front door, trying to muscle his way into our lives with the sole intention of taking advantage of Draven.
"Computers, huh?" Dad squints. A shiver of unease runs up my spine. Dad and thinking make unnatural bedfellows. Nothing good happens when he starts plotting.
As far as I'm concerned, I've done my duty and said what I needed to say.