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The Sins of the Father
The next morning, Garrett watched Margot’s Range Rover pull into the circular drive from the study window, a cup of cold coffee in his hands. Not only had sleep evaded him, he hadn't showered either. The blood was gone from his face—he'd scrubbed it off in the kitchen sink the night before—but his knuckles were still raw and swollen, and there was a bruise forming on his forehead where he'd connected with Walters' nose.
He looked, he suspected, like someone who had been in a fight. Good. Let her see it.
The front door opened. Footsteps in the foyer, heels clicking on hardwood, then silence as she reached the rug in the hallway. Garrett stayed where he was, seated behind the desk, Ezekiel's journal open in front of him. He didn't stand when she appeared in the doorway.
"Reed said you were cooperative," Margot said.
"I told your errand boy what he wanted to hear."
Her lips pursed as she stepped into the study, her eyes moving from his bruised knuckles to the journal on the desk to his face.
"What happened to you?"
"Denny Walters stopped by last night."
Margot went still. "The sports guy?"
"He wanted to look around."
The color drained from Margot's face. "Did you let him?"
"Does it look like I let him? He wanted his letter but I sent the fat fuck packing."
The mask she always wore fell away entirely, revealing a wild kind of anger. "So you did find it! Why didn't you say that? Why did you lie? Why can't you ever, ever just do what you're supposed to?"
The words hit Garrett like a slap. Something cracked open in his chest—a memory surfacing from the place he'd buried it fifteen years ago.
