She’s at the door before I’ve turned off my car, moving forward to grip the banister and wave. “Sterling!”
I grin, grabbing the mail before heading to the porch. “Hey, Mom.”
She wraps me in a hug, and I grip her just as tightly. Things might be tense with my father right now, but my mom always had space in her heart for me. Sometimes she was distant, especially as I grew older, but she did her best to care and love me.
When we pull back, she’s still smiling. “I didn’t believe you were going to come. I thought an emergency would come up and you would need to cancel.”
A little pang of guilt stabs at my heart. “Not this time, mom. Forced day off. Deputy Director’s orders.”
Mom groans. “Oh, those directors. They always think they know what’s best, don’t they?”
I smirk. “Something like that.”
She nods, her smile cracking. Clearing her throat, she takes the mail from me and drops her gaze. “Your father is upstairs. He might still be up, but he’s in a lot of pain after the chemo yesterday. I wish you would’ve called first.”
“I didn’t know ahead of time I’d have the day off,” I sigh. “Is it doing any good anymore?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t look up at me. “His doctors say this is the last option. The cancer is too aggressive and the last treatment option made things worse. He’s getting too frail to take anymore chemo.”
Her voice cracks at the end, and I drag her into another hug. I’ve been so wrapped up in the case and avoiding Dad’spestering calls I forgot about the rest of their lives that I was missing.
Like my father dying.
“He will like seeing you,” mom says, patting my back again before she lets go. “And Sterling? Don’t pester him too much about cases. His mind isn’t there anymore. If he’s in too much pain he might not even talk.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. If Dad has any secrets left to bury, hiding behind pain and suffering with his cancer treatments would be a good way to do so.
I find him upstairs in his bedroom. A fancy hospital-grade bed takes up a large portion of their room now, and he’s got a couple needles sticking out of his arm that reads on the machine beside him. A home healthcare worker checks in daily, and I’m glad I missed them.
The closer I get, the more it makes me think of Alastair. It’s a jarring thought, and I shake the idea away as I sit in the chair beside his bed. “Hello, Dad.”
He grunts but doesn’t open his eyes. His brows move, and I’m not entirely sure he even meant to respond to me. I’ve heard chemo clouds your brain and makes you feel a whole new level of god awful, and I can’t imagine what it’s doing to him mentally. He went from being a badass FBI agent with a stellar career history to a feeble man dying in his home. It’s sad to think how quickly this disease took over his life.
When he doesn’t respond again, I blow out a breath and study the machines. Some of the numbers on there make sense to me, but others are just nonsense in my head. “I’m still working the CGS case. We caught Porscha Surwright. Did you know she was alive?”
He doesn’t react at all. There’s a steady rise and fall to his chest, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. It’s hard to tell, but I wouldn’t put it past him to ignore me either.
Dragging my tongue across my teeth, I debate what I can say to get a rise out of him if he’s bullshitting me. I didn’t drive up here to be ignored and have dad pretend that nothing bad ever happened in his past.
Well, there is one thing I can say that I know with absolute certainty is bound to piss him off. “Jo Surwright told me you assaulted her.”
Just like that, dad’s eyes pop open. They’re sunken in his face that’s narrowed from losing weight and heavy bags hang beneath his eyes. “That’s a filthy fucking lie.”
My brows lift as we stare at each other. “Well, good morning. Or good afternoon at this hour. Hear something you didn’t like?”
Dad grumbles, scooting around in the bed to get comfortable. I lean forward at first before my muscles lock up, and I blow out a breath through my nose as I sit back. I’m here because despite what I told my team, I’m working the case. I’ve avoided my dad for as long as I can. “How nice of you to finally visit—just to accuse me.”
I stare at him. “Well, did you?”
I’ve never gotten a straight answer from Jo or Vinny about that. I can’t get the idea out of my head, but I’m too afraid of their answer to push them again. Dad’s body language and tone will be enough to reveal if he’s lying when he answers.
“Porscha’s spawn?” he asks, his voice a little raspy. I eye the cup of ice chips, half melted on his bedside. “I’d rather cut off my dick. Unfortunately the cancer’s beating me to it. Can’t do much of anything with it anymore.”
And just like that, I don’t want to ask him any more questions. The disgust in his voice sounds sincere, and I really don’t want to hear about what my father would or would not be doing with his dick if cancer wasn’t a problem.
I hand him ice chips when he reaches for the cups, and he just glares as he tips back the glass, settling us into silence again. He watches me as he chews the ice chips, his breathing labored. The lung cancer is truly kicking his ass.
“You haven’t been by since the case began,” dad says, looking around the room. “At the beginning of last year-”
