Nash

Even though I didn’t board a plane until I was in my early twenties, I loved flying from my very first trip. By now I’d traveled the world several times over, but the thrill still hadn’t gotten old. Speeding down the runway, my back pressed against the seat as the landscape rushed by. The roar of the engines, the sense of power and momentum building, expanding, until the vibrations suddenly ceased and the plane lifted, airborne. That feeling of loft, of weightlessness, with the ground below and only the sun above—it was exhilarating.

In a way, flying was a physical representation of my own hard-fought success. Years spent learning, practicing, gathering knowledge and skills and contacts until I could lift up careers and companies, wealth and prestige floating beside me like fat, puffy clouds. But as a venture capitalist, whether those clouds floated by innocuously, just something to marvel at and enjoy, or they caused storms capable of destroying all that lay below, was entirely up to me.

My brother must have had the same fascination, because he eventually became a fighter pilot for the Air Force. But when Wyatt returned from a mission, he stripped off his uniform, ate off a plastic tray in a communal mess hall, and slept on a twin bed in a barracks, accompanied by the smells and snoring of his fellow soldiers.

Fighting battles on Wall Street was not nearly as heroic, but it came with a much better set of rewards. I traveled in private planes, lived in a penthouse, drank the finest wine and whiskey, bedded gorgeous women. Wealth had its privileges, and I availed myself of them all. But for me, nothing held a candle to the thrill of my work. Analyzing floundering companies, pinpointing the key components worth saving. Stripping them down to their core, eliminating redundancies and nonessential components that distracted from their fundamental objectives. It was precise and cerebral, with huge potential for risk or reward.

I’d gotten so good at my job, I could almost do it in my sleep. Really. There were nights when I fell asleep mulling over a new company I wanted to invest in, and by the time I woke up a few hours later, my execution plan was fully formed. Quite frankly, it was becoming a problem. Not for my company, which was stronger and more profitable than ever before, or for my employees, who were making more money than they could have anticipated, even by lavish Wall Street standards. It was a problem for me. Because the challenge was waning. Sure, the money bought some pretty great toys, don’t get me wrong. But the thrill . . . the thrill lay in the struggle itself, not in spending my profits acquiring sports franchises and exotic cars.

Which was why I had flown to Nebraska this morning, for what had turned out to be a thoroughly unproductive meeting. I should shake it off like a glancing blow to my chin, turn my attention to other opportunities worth pursuing. But I refused to believe that this trip was nothing more than a colossal waste of time.

A year ago—hell, even a few months ago, I wouldn’t have been interested in NetworkTech at all. It was healthy, vibrant company. There would have no shortage of offers to choose from. Legitimate offers from other venture capitalists with whom, as a rule, I didn’t swim in the same pool. I preferred to hunt for damaged goods, the runts of the litter. I destroyed them and built them back up, stronger and more profitable than they’d ever been before. Then I sold them for many multiples of my original investment. It was risky, but I enjoyed the challenge.

NetworkTech was profitable and productive, and it was growing at a decent, though not significant, pace. There didn’t appear to be much fat to trim, or excess weight to auction off. Its founder and current CEO, Mack Duncan, had never sought outside investors and until a few days ago, I’d assumed he intended to leave NetworkTech to his children.

However, Wall Street’s rumor mill was more active and vicious than the meanest mean girl clique at Constance Billard School for Girls. It’s true—Gossip Girls had nothing on Manhattan Moguls. And word on the Street was that Mack Duncan was looking to sell. His wife had recently passed away after a long illness and he wanted to spend his remaining years with his children and grandchildren, none of whom were interested in taking over the company he’d built from the ground up. Again, a few months ago that would have meant nothing to me. But for some reason, the tidbit had piqued my interest. Almost for shits and giggles, I’d assembled a team and begun digging into the Nebraska-based technology firm. What we’d discovered made me determined to close the deal.

Duncan was a pioneer in the field of complex, integrated networking systems, pre-dating the ascent of Silicon Valley as the hub of all things tech. In the United States, his patented technology was integral to everything from cars and phones to defense operations and wireless routing systems. Because of the closed Chinese market, and their stringent cyber-security requirements, introducing foreign products was difficult, if not nearly impossible. Currently, NetworkTech could not do business in China. But if a company I invested in last year, a company based out of Hong Kong and registered with the Chinese, could form a joint venture with Network Tech—the potential was enormous.

It would be a very delicate negotiation, but well worth the effort. Without a doubt, acquiring NetworkTech was the kind of deal known in my industry as a unicorn. With access to China’s market, NetworkTech would be worth well over a billion dollars and push Knight Ventures’ assets to tip the scales at two billion, or even more.

It wouldn’t be easy . . . but it was damn exciting.

Except I’d already encountered a hiccup. More than a hiccup. A goddamn boulder had been dropped in my path.

Mack Duncan had turned me down—and not in an I’m saying no but help me get to yes kind of way.

Not that he didn’t want to sell his company. No, he was actively looking for a buyer. As long as it wasn’t me.

So now I was back in the air. Fucking fuming.

Duncan didn’t know about the potential I saw for his product because he’d never attempted to enter the Chinese market. Few had. It was like a sealed box, containing the Holy Grail. Everyone wanted to get their hands on it, but no one could crack the lock. If I told him about my idea for a joint venture, one of three things would happen. He could call me crazy, or worse. He could continue as CEO, and attempt to go it alone. Or his price would go up tenfold, if not more.

I was prepared to pay a fair price for NetworkTech, given the publicly available information about his company. If things didn’t work out, I could always sell it. Likely for about the same amount, give or take, since without tapping the trillion-dollar Chinese economy, there wasn’t much room for growth.

But apparently my reputation for being more of a vulture capitalist than a venture capitalist had preceded me. Mack Duncan didn’t understand what I saw in his company, nor did he relish the prospect of me ripping it to shreds, like I’d done to so many others. An hour ago, I’d even done something unthinkable—offering to sign a contract guaranteeing that there would be no layoffs for three years.

Duncan hadn’t budged. Instead he’d removed the thick glasses that had slid down his nose, rubbing at the grooves lining his forehead as he studied me over the width of his cluttered desk. “I’ve had no shortage of potential buyers for my company, you know.”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

“But you’re the only one who’s done his homework.” He left out a hearty guffaw. “In fact, I’d say you know this company nearly as well as I do.”

Of course I did. If I went after something, I did it full throttle. “I don’t believe in wasting time, either mine or yours.”

Duncan’s cheeks had dropped, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Then I’m afraid you’ve done both.”

I blinked, holding back my surprise and disappointment behind an impassive mask. “And why is that?”

“I’ve done my homework, too. I don’t believe that you intend to treat my company differently than others you’ve acquired, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving NetworkTech in your hands. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s the truth. I was married to my Betty, God rest her soul, for nearly fifty years, and during that time, do you know what I’ve learned is the greatest predictor of promises becoming reality?”

“Mr. Duncan, I’m prepared to sign—”

He waved me off. “A good lawyer can get you out of anything, these days. No, what matters to me is the most important commitment of all. Marriage.”

“Marriage,” I repeated, dumbfounded.

He nodded. “That, right. Marriage. I’m not selling my company to some Wall Street whiz kid that can’t make up his mind which woman to share his bed with. No, sir.” He stood, extending his hand. “Mr. Knight, you are one hell of a businessman, I’ll grant you that. But I’m not willing to trust my legacy, the company I built with blood, sweat and tears, to a man that’s tomcattin’ around every night.”

Yeah, not what I expected to hear when I strutted into NetworkTech’s bunker-like offices this morning, the Patek Philippe watch encircling my wrist worth multiples of any car I’d seen in the parking lot.

The watch was mocking me now. It hadn’t even marked an hour between hello and get - the - fuck - out - of - my - office - you - Wall - Street - hack. Not that Mack Duncan had been so profane. He may as well have, though, because his polite words didn’t sting any less. And if I was being honest with myself, I couldn’t even blame him. My only commitment had been to my company, which excelled at taking other companies, not unlike his, apart limb from limb.

But . . . marriage. I blew out a heavy breath. Since Eva, there hadn’t been a single woman who had sparked more than just the briefest flare of interest. Except for Nixie. She’d sparked a hell of a lot more than that.

The pilot announced that we’d reached cruising altitude and I glanced out the window, surprised to realize we were airborne. My head had been in the clouds well before takeoff.

Thinking about Nixie, I recalled the last words she’d said to me before I hung up the phone. You can’t always get what you want. Well, she was definitely right about that.

I wanted NetworkTech, and getting my hands on it was proving to be a bitch.

I wanted Nixie, but going after her would make me one hell of a son of a bitch.

I turned my head away from the window and caught the attention of the stewardess. Not difficult to do, since I’d felt her eyes on me for most of the flight. She looked familiar. Had I fucked her? I gave a mental shrug. Probably. “Hello, Mr. Knight,” she said in a husky whisper that implied I had. “I didn’t want to interrupt you, you looked so serious. Can I get you something?” She added a wink. “Anything at all?”

“Tempting,” I lied, her name coming to me suddenly. “But for now I’ll just take a whiskey, Samantha. Neat.”

She covered her disappointment with the quick flash of a too-bright smile. “Coming right up.”

I remembered her now. A pre-dawn blow job over the Atlantic, mouth like a fucking Hoover. Normally there was never a bad time to get head, but right now . . . no.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I hadn’t meant to call Nixie yesterday, had been determined never to talk to her again. But for some reason, I couldn’t help myself. I might as well order a new set of business cards. Nash Knight, Son of a Bitch in Chief. Nash: Hi. As I waited for a response, Samantha returned with my drink. I took a sip, letting the liquor burn a slow path down my throat. Maybe Nixie wouldn’t answer after I’d hung up on her so abruptly last night. As my thumb cramped from not tapping out another text, I made a bet with myself. If Nixie didn’t respond, that would be it—I was out. I’d delete her contact information and leave her the fuck alone.

Finally, three dancing dots appeared. I exhaled a sigh of relief so heavy it left me lightheaded. Nixie: Hi.

Asshole that I was, her simple answer left me wanting. Nash: That’s all I get?

Nixie: Isn’t that all you gave?

Nash: Women tend to use more words than men.

Nixie: Based on your intimate knowledge of . . . how many women, exactly?

Nash: A gentlemen doesn’t kiss and tell.

Nixie: Are you suggesting you’re a gentleman?

Nash: Are you suggesting I’m not?

Nixie: There are other words I’d probably use.

Nash: Such as?

Nixie: Player. Manwhore. Cad.

Had she and Mack Duncan been reading the same tabloids? Nash: Cad? A little dated, no?

Nixie: You object to me calling you a cad, but you’re fine with player and manwhore?

My lips twisted as I stared down at the screen. Nixie was spirited. Nash: Point taken. Let’s discuss something much more interesting . . .

Nixie: More interesting than how best to describe your philandering ways?

I gave a soft grunt. Nash: Yes. Much more interesting. What are you wearing?

Nixie: You’re kidding, right?

Nash: No. I’ve already reviewed all the documents for my meetings in Hong Kong. I’m caught up on all my emails. And I’ve checked out the scores of all my favorite teams. I’m bored. I didn’t add that the reason I had nothing more to do was the roadblock I’d encountered in Nebraska. I had anticipated my meeting with Duncan lasting longer and requiring a significant amount of follow up afterward. Instead I’d had my cock chopped off and handed to me in a suitcase, the better to send me to the airport quickly.

Nixie: I’m sure there’s a woman on the plane who would be more than happy to serve as your in-flight entertainment.

I lifted my head. Sure enough, Samantha was right there. Her face lit up, pretty but . . . not Nixie. “Another drink?” she asked.

I eyed my glass. Still half full, I shook my head and looked back at my phone. Nash: There is. But what if I want to reform my caddish ways?

Nixie: Lolololololol!

My grip tightened as I frowned at the screen. Nash: ???

Nixie: Sorry, that was just too funny.

Nash: I don’t get the joke.

Nixie: That’s why it’s so funny.

I needed to get our conversation back on track. Nash: You never answered my question . . .

Nixie: About what I’m wearing?

Nash: Yes.

Nixie: I’m still in bed, what do you think I’m wearing?

An image of Nixie, stunning and sleepy and in my bed, hit me in the solar plexus. I groaned. Samantha was at my side in an instant. “Did you say something?”

I mumbled a “no,” not even looking up from my phone. Nash: If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.

Nixie: Are we sexting?

Nash: That depends.

Nixie: On what?

Nash: You.

Nixie: Me?

Nash: Yes. Sexting usually starts off by revealing what you’re wearing.

Nixie: Ah. So there’s a format to it. Good to know.

Nash: You’re welcome. So . . .

Nixie: So . . . what?

Swallowing a groan of frustration I looked up for Samantha. “I’ll have that drink now.” Nash: Are you always this uncooperative?

Nixie: Yes. Are you always this single-minded?

Nash: Yes. How about a pic?

Nixie: My camera is broken.

Nash: I’ll have Jay bring you one.

Nixie: Leave that man alone!

Nash: Believe me, he is well paid for his efforts.

Nixie: If I need a new phone, I will get one myself.

Nash: Fine. Go get one.

Nixie: I’m not going to sext with you, new phone or not.

Nash: Good idea. Let’s drop the t. Sex would be much better. I’ll be back this weekend.

Nixie: Why don’t you go practice with whatever woman is trying to catch your eye? I’m sure it won’t be your first time in the mile-high club.

Nash: I meant with you.

Nixie: I told you, I’m not your type.

Nash: How do you know what my type is?

Nixie: How long does it take you to get from “hello” to “oh yeah, baby”?

Nash: I’ll have you know, my nights do not end with “oh yeah, baby”.

Nixie: How long?

Nash: Depends.

Nixie: How long?

I decided to be generous. Nash: A few hours, give or take.

Nixie: Easy.

Nash: ???

Nixie: That’s your type. Easy.

I stared at the screen, hating that Nixie was right. Hating that I hated that Nixie was right. For so long I thought of my approach toward women and relationships as simply streamlined, but maybe there was a more appropriate adjective for it. Empty. Nash: What’s your type?

Nixie: I don’t have one.

Nash: Everyone has a type.

Nixie: Ok, future.

Nash: What?

Nixie: My type of man only exists in the future. I told you, I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.

A strange sound alerted me that I was grinding my teeth. I relaxed my jaw. Nash: So, what’s this future man going to be like?

Nixie: My future man will be honest and trustworthy. He won’t treat me like I’m weak and foolish, incapable of taking care of myself.

I frowned at my phone, taken aback by the sharpness of her text. Nash: I don’t think you’re weak or foolish.

Nixie: Just incapable of taking care of myself?

Nash: In a dark alley, with two guys from the streets . . . yeah.

Nixie: Fuck you.

A relieved grin shaped my mouth. I’d take anger over intimacy any day. Nash: Gladly.

Nixie: Goodbye, Nash.

Nash: Is it? Good, I mean.

Several minutes passed, and I figured she’d had enough of me. But then those dancing dots appeared again. Nixie: It is.

Nash: Why?

Nixie: I wouldn’t think a Master of the Universe would need to ask.

Nash: I like to defy expectations.

Nixie: Ha! You like to set expectations.

Nash: That too. So, I’m curious . . . why are you so determined to stay unattached?

Nixie: ???

Nash: Future man is fine but present man is SOL.

Nixie: I told you. I just got out of a relationship. I don’t want to get back into one yet.

Nash: Then I’m your type.

Nixie: You lost me.

Empty had served me well so far. I should stick with it. Nash: I don’t do relationships, at all. Just pleasure, no strings attached.

Nixie: Why don’t you “do” relationships?

I sighed, of course that would be the part of my comment she fixated on. Nash: It’s a long story.

Nixie: You obviously have plenty of time.

Nash: Not on text. IRL. Go out with me and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

Nixie: Anything?

Nash: I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie.

Nixie: I’ll think about it. Now, go bother whatever stewardess has been eying you since you boarded the plane. Goodbye.

Nixie

I stared at my screen, tracing Nash’s last text with my fingertip. It had been two days, and I’d started half a dozen texts to him since then. Started . . . and then stopped. What was there to say? Nothing. I should say nothing. What did Nash really want from me, anyway? I’d never “sexted” before and I wasn’t about to start now. And sex, well, that was a non-starter. I mean, one night would no doubt be enough for Nash and then I’d probably never hear from him again. If I was lonely now, I’d feel so much worse then.

I’ve got nothing to hide, Nixie. Maybe he was telling the truth. I’d looked him up online yesterday, spent a few minutes marveling at the sheer volume of links to articles on Nash’s business success, although it seemed as if an equal number of links were related to his personal life, namely the stream of women he was spotted with at any number of New York hotspots. In the end, I didn’t open them. I had no interest in his business, and even less seeing him pawed by some gorgeous model.

And besides, even if I read every single word, what would I really learn about Nash Knight? If I Googled Derrick’s name, would I discover that he was a gambling addict? Doubtful.

No, the only way to know anything worth knowing about Nash Knight was to actually get to know him. And I just wasn’t in the right mindset to open myself up to more heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Discovering that Derrick had an ulterior motive, that he would exploit me so callously, after we’d practically grown up together, after we’d been in a relationship for years—it was a weight I just couldn’t seem to get out from under, settling onto my shoulders and making each step heavy and ponderous. Would I ever be able to trust anyone again? Just because Nash was successful didn’t mean he was a good guy. And until I felt like I could tell good from bad, I needed to stay away.

So, why didn’t I want to stay away?

Nash terrified me, but texting with him two nights ago had been like taking that first breath after swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. I barely knew the man, and he was half a world away—how was it possible to feel so close to him?

Nash and I didn’t belong together—we came from different worlds, wanted entirely different things—but being dumped would still hurt.

I sure as hell didn’t want to tell him about Derrick. Why—so he could feel bad for me? I didn’t need Nash’s pity, or his help.

I just needed to stay under the radar for the next three hundred and sixty days, give or take.

Which meant staying away from Pappi, too. I missed him, a lot. No one could ever take the place of my real father, of course. But Pappi had always made me feel loved and wanted, not just an obligation he’d been saddled with. Technically, I was an orphan, but I’d never actually felt like one until now. When I made the decision to run away, I didn’t realize it would be so lonely.

I hadn’t made any real friends at school yet, and I didn’t expect to. Most of them talked constantly about trying to find themselves. Or worse, discover their passion.

I didn’t understand them at all.

What did I want? I wanted to lose myself. And as for passion, that was the last thing I wanted to discover. If I could, I’d take that useless emotion and chuck it out my dirty apartment window. Passion was just an excuse for making a wrong turn and deciding not to change course.

And Nash was definitely a wrong turn.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed from an incoming text. Nash: R u awake?

Ignore it. Ignore him. I reached for my hand lotion, squeezing more than a dollop into the palm of my hands and working it into my skin. My hands weren’t dry, but it gave me something to do. If my fingertips were greasy, I couldn’t very well text, could I?

Nash: How r your stitches healing? I can send Doc to take a look.

I gnashed my teeth, glaring at my phone with narrowed eyes. Couldn’t he have asked for a naked picture again? Something that wouldn’t make me want to text back. Maybe I should have coated my hands in Vaseline.

Nash: If u don’t respond, I will be convinced that you decided to get something off a shelf and fell, ripping your stitches and bleeding out in your apartment. I’ll have to send Doc over to your place. Maybe Jay too so he can kick open your door . . . 5

Nash: 4

Nash: 3

Rubbing my greasy hands on my legs, I snatched up the phone. Nixie: Quit acting like a brat.

Nash: For checking up on you?

Nixie: No. For threatening to send a very nice man to Brooklyn for no good reason except to get me to respond.

Nash: It worked.

Nixie: To confirm that you’re an entitled, cocky jerk—yes, it did. Congrats.

Nash: What has you so cranky tonight?

Nixie: You.

Nash: Do u have a dog?

Nixie: A dog? No. Why?

Nash: A cat?

Nixie: No. Why??

Nash: Are you allergic?

Nixie: No. Why?????

Nash: Because people with pets have reduced levels of irritation.

Nixie: Have you been watching Dr. Phil?

Nash: Who?

Nixie: Nevermind.

Nash: It was a long flight with spotty wifi. I read a few magazines.

Nixie: I guess it must be true then.

Nash: It’s working. You’re less irritated already, I can tell.

Nixie: I think you may have had some bad sushi.

Nash: Don’t joke, that happened last time I was in Tokyo. I’ve had better luck with the dim sum in Hong Kong though.

Nixie: Don’t you have meetings to go to?

Nash: I’m in one right now.

Nixie: Then why are you texting me?

Nash: Because I’m bored.

Nixie: I thought you were a big shot?

Nash: Big shots can’t be bored?

Nixie: Big shots usually run the meetings. You shouldn’t have the chance to be bored.

Nash: You obviously haven’t worked on Wall Street. Meetings r run by underlings. Big shots make the decisions.

Nixie: If that’s the case, shouldn’t you be paying attention so you can make an informed decision?

Nash: I already have.

Nixie: So then you can end the meeting, no?

Nash: But I’m having fun texting you.

I felt the tug of a smile on my lips. Fun. I liked that. Nixie: Do you have a pet?

Nash: I’m not home enough. And besides, I don’t think Greta would approve.

I laughed, remembering the dour faced woman. Nixie: Lol. True.

Nash: Maybe I should get you a puppy. Then I could come and visit.

Nixie: Don’t u dare.

Nash: Why not? Your building doesn’t allow dogs?

Nixie: No, they do. But I’ll bet you would buy one of those snooty purebreds with an attitude.

Nash: What’s wrong with a purebred?

Nixie: If I wanted a dog, I’d get one from a shelter.

Nash: You would rather have a dog no one wants?

I recoiled from my phone. Nixie: Um. Wow. You’re heartless.

Nash: No, I really mean it. Why would you want a dog no one wants? If you buy one, at least you know what you’re getting.

Nixie: Yeah, inbreeding. If you rescue a dog, you’re giving it a better life. Don’t you ever do something good, just because?

Nash: How would you know which one to take home?

Nixie: That’s easy. I’d pick the one with the saddest eyes.

A few minutes passed, and I figured his meeting must have ended. Just as I was about to plug my phone in the charger and go to sleep—try to sleep, anyway—it buzzed again. Nash: Like yours? Why are your eyes so sad, Nixie?

My jaw sagged. How could I respond to that? Nixie: I think I liked it better when you were trying to sext with me.

Nash: You’re deflecting.

Nixie: I’m entitled.

Nash: I have a thing for entitled women.

Nixie: Good for you.

Nash: Entitled women with red hair and sad eyes.

Nixie: Do they have a lot of those in Hong Kong?

Nash: No. I’m afraid they’re extremely rare. My fingers hovered over the keys, again at a loss. Nash: Gotta go, meeting’s over. Goodnight, Nixie. Sleep tight.

Sleep tight.

How could I sleep after that?

Flushed from our heated text exchange, I fell back on my pillow and tried to focus on all the reasons getting involved with Nash would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.

A siren blared outside my window, followed by a car alarm and the murmur of excited voices. As they faded away, an echo from my childhood rattled my ears. Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.

My mother’s voice sounded so real, like she was right beside me. With trembling fingers, I dropped my phone and burrowed beneath the covers, my heartbeat pounding against my ribs like a caged inmate shaking the bars of his cell. I’d nearly forgotten her whispered catchphrase as she tucked me in at night.

Mostly, I kept memories like those locked up, stuffed somewhere so deep I could pretend they weren’t there at all. But now a hot rush of tears stung my eyes. Would there ever be a time when I stopped missing them, judging myself through what I imagined their lens would look like? Wondering whether they would be proud of the daughter I’d become?

It killed me to think that they wouldn’t. How could they be proud of me? What had I accomplished? I sat up quickly, turning on the lamp beside my bed and dropping to my knees on the floor. I hadn’t brought much of my old life with me, but there was one photograph I’d thrown in my bag at the last minute. Reaching under my bed, I pulled out a rectangular box filled with legal documents from the lawyer I’d hired to change my name. Nestled beneath them was a picture frame, filled by a photograph taken the day I was born. Bundled in a swaddling blanket between my parents, I was barely visible, but the camera had perfectly captured a look I remembered them sharing often. They were angled slightly away from the camera, looking at each other with wide-mouthed smiles, their eyes shining with happiness.

For the first eight years of my life, their love had wrapped around me, insulating me from any hint that life held dangers beyond a scraped knee or homework-heavy teacher. Until the day that airtight security had been blown to bits. Literally.

I fingered the phrase engraved into the wood. Life Is Who You Love. Who did I love? I thought I’d loved Derrick. And I had, but it wasn’t a forever kind of love. He said he loved me, too, but it had been a lie. He wanted to control me. And he wanted my money.

I loved Pappi. But I’d been betrayed by him, too. Derrick was his son—shouldn’t he have known that Derrick was up to no good? Protected me from him?

And where did all this armchair psychoanalysis leave me?

There was the rub. Nowhere.

With a sigh, I put the picture frame back in the box and closed the lid, returning it to its hiding place. Some things are better left in the dark.