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I shake my head.

“Your father had gotten himself into some trouble with the law, and Phillip demanded he go into rehab. He’d refused, so Phillip cut him off. I suppose shortly after that, he met your mother.”

“My mom was so smart. She was heartbroken when he left us. How could she have loved him if he was so awful?”

“From what I remember, your father could be quite charming when he wanted to be.”

I try to reconcile the man I knew with the one she’s describing. A charming young man who convinced my mother he was her happily ever after. How many years did she suffer his temper?

How many nights did I hear her crying down the hall?

I might have been young, but I can remember it so clearly.

And all the while, he’d blamed his father for it. My mother had, too.

Now to find out he’d been lying? That his father was actually a decent man?

How did my mom not see through it?

“Dear girl, don’t think ill of your mother. We’ve all suffered from poor judgement a time or two.” She covers my hand with hers. “All except you, it seems.” She arches a brow. “That Ryker sure is a looker. Strong, too.”

My cheeks heat despite my desperate attempt to keep my expression neutral. “Ryker is my bodyguard. He’s helping me get answers.”

“I might be old in numbers, but my eyesight has never been better.”

“Seriously, he’s just—it’s just business.”

“Then that’s a shame. Because, whew, a guy like that doesn’t come along every day.”

The door opens, and Ryker steps in. Don’t I know it.

“The car is here,” he tells me.

“Okay, thanks.” I turn to Mrs. Marooney. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry about me. Sawyer assures me I’ll be spending some time at the beach, and I am quite excited about that.”

“Good.” I smile at her. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

Mrs. Marooney leans forward and pats my cheek. “Don’t thank me, honey. I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to know him.”

Chapter 23

Ryker

“This is—wow!” Dahlia exclaims as we step onto the private jet my brother has waiting for us. When he hears her, he gets up from where he was sitting and crosses forward, a proud smile on his face.

“Thanks. I like to think it’s impressive.”

My own nerves are frayed, and the tension in my shoulders hasn’t let up since I made the call to Presley this morning. But knowing what we know now about who’s really after Dahlia, it only made more sense to leave.

Phillip Prescott is worth millions. And that’s not even including the physical assets he possesses. People have killed for a whole lot less.

“It really is.” She smiles at him. “Thank you for helping.”

“Of course, who am I to let family sit in danger?” he asks, then looks up at me. There’s a darkness in his gaze that wasn’t there when we were kids. A weight he carries now as a man.

Is it because of the shooting?