Page 32 of Shadow Secrets
“I’m used to it.”
“That’s not the same as being okay with it.”
He thought of his mother on the other end of that call. Her voice thinner than he remembered. The careful phrasing she’d used to avoid asking directly if he was drinking, if he was sleeping, if he was alone. Eleanor Whitaker had hosted galas for thirty years. She knew how to ask hard questions sideways. He’d dodged all of them.
“You should call her tomorrow. Tell her that this sucks for you. Be honest with her.”
The last thing he wanted to do. “Not gonna happen.”
“Lynx.”
He loosed another sigh. “I’ll think about it.”
Sutton’s finger traced a shape on his forearm. “I take it your family avoids emotions.”
“Absolutely. In my family, you avoid uncomfortable topics. Everyone does what they’re supposed to do.”
She turned his arm over, tracing her finger on the sensitive skin along his inner wrist. “Except you.”
“Except me.” He watched her outline what looked like an invisible cat. A lynx, he realized. “The Secret Service was supposed to be a phase. A rebellious detour before I came to my senses and went to law school. My father tolerated it because it had a certain prestige—his son protecting the President, which played well at cocktail parties. I never did guard POTUS, only family members of other officials. Then the shooting happened.”
“And you became famous.”
“My father was proud of me for exactly one week. Longest streak in our relationship.” The words came out dry. Practiced. He’d said them to himself enough times that the edges had worn smooth. “Then he started talking about what was next. The book deal. The speaking circuit. A Senate run—his father’s old seat was opening up, and what better candidate than America’s Hero? He had the whole thing mapped out. I’d ride the wave of goodwill straight into politics.”
“But?”
“I had no interest in it. The arguments were akin to Armageddon. I’d killed a man and nearly died, and I wasn’t interested in turning it into a career platform. He said I was being ungrateful. We haven’t spoken since. Mom texts once in a while, and my sister is always there for me. But Dad? I think he’s relieved I disappeared from the spotlight. He can now act as if I don’t exist.”
He waited for sympathy, or the polite deflection people used when someone else’s family dysfunction made them uncomfortable.
“Your father and mine should start a club,” she said.
Sebastian smiled. “They should.”
“I’m glad you still have your mom and sister. My mother works a bookkeeping job. She used to paint. Watercolors—really beautiful ones, landscapes mostly. She hasn’t picked up a brush since Penn died. I call on birthdays and holidays. The conversations last less than ten minutes.” She paused. “So I get it. What happened affected both our families in bad ways.”
Two families broken by the same thirty seconds. Two fathers who’d chosen their own comfort over their children. “But we’ve stayed standing when everyone else walked away,” he said.
Her finger stopped moving. Her hand found his again—fingers curling around his palm. She squeezed. “We’re stronger than they realize.”
She pulled her hand away, yet he could still feel the pressure of her fingers. The warmth of her palm. The lynx she’d traced on his inner forearm.
“Were you thinking your arm or back?” she asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“The tattoo. Arm? Back? Somewhere else?”
“I don’t know. I was going to ask the tattoo artist for a suggestion.”
She shifted, motioning for him to turn around. “Lift your shirt. Let me see your back.”
He didn’t move. If he showed her his back, she’d see the scar under his ribs. “Why?”
“I want to know what my canvas looks like.”
“You think it should go on my back?”
