Dial Em for Murder
Page 25
Before I could overthink myself into a tailspin, I snapped a picture.
Loading. Loading. Loading.
The book icon enlarged to reveal a face with only one familiar feature.
My father.
His hair was lighter than mine, a sandy reddish brown that looked carelessly rumpled even in his unsmiling snapshot. The basic information on the other side of his face made my stomach writhe like an angry snake struggling to get into striking position. My heart thudded too fast. My hands trembled unsteadily.
Name: David William Danverse
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
Height: 6'2"
Occupation: FBI agent, investigated in 2006, resigned in 2007 after being cleared of all charges.
That was preceded by a whole list of aliases that included Robert C. Redford and Lucas Rodriguez. He didn’t look much like a “Rodriguez” to me, but apparently he hadn’t gotten busted for it since there wasn’t a record for any prison time. Of course, it was still entirely possible he was locked up in some hellhole where they didn’t document their inmates. Or maybe he was sipping cappuccinos on the beach in some tiny Italian villa, reading a lengthy biography on Winston Churchill, and smiling as he watched his other legitimate kids frolicking in the waves.
My pulse increased into hyperspeed, like a caffeine junkie who’d just knocked back five shots of espresso.
I had found him.
It had only taken sixteen years, two untimely deaths, and my complete loss of faith in humanity, but I’d tracked down my father. The man who had walked out on my mom without a backward glance was only a phone call away. I sat on my hands in a desperate attempt to control the shaking. It didn’t help though. Not when my whole body twitched with nervous energy. I’d spent over a decade daydreaming about a father-daughter reunion. I should have felt happier at the prospect of actually making it happen. The one constant in all those fantasies was that I’d wanted to find him. See him. Meet him.
I’d never imagined the possibility that my emotional range would ever be stunted to the point that I vacillated between panic, fear, anxiety, and an overwhelming numbness that left no room for enthusiasm. All I could think was that this information should have been my birthright. His face should have lingered over my crib for countless games of peekaboo. Nobody should have needed to die for me to find one lone picture of him.
Anger rose inside of me, flushing my cheeks and filling all the empty spaces inside me. I craved the heat of outrage, embracing it like a long lost friend. It made me reckless. Impulsive. Honest. I didn’t claim to be an expert on law enforcement agencies, but I’d read enough romance novels to know that FBI agents weren’t obligated to lie about what they did for a living. They weren’t forbidden to get married or raise kids. They might not be able to discuss their cases at home, but they could say, “Sorry, honey, work calls. I might be out of reach for a week or two” if they had been handed a particularly big assignment.
If my dad thought his disappearing act would never come back to bite him, then he was in for one hell of a wakeup call.
I pressed the phone number before I could chicken out, holding my breath as the Slate sprang into action.
Riiiiiing.
Oh, holy shit. What was I doing?
Riiiiiing.
What was I supposed to say? “Hey asshole. Welcome to Fatherhood?”
Beeep!
“Um, hi,” I said lamely, my anger deflating like a cheap grocery store balloon. “I’m looking for Dan . . . uh, David,” I corrected myself. “This is . . .” your long-lost daughter, your best kept secret, your least favorite person, “Emmy Danvers.”
I swallowed hard, feeling hopelessly unprepared to string complete sentences together. I ordered myself not to panic. Not yet.
“I’ve got a message from Frederick St. James. If he wants to hear it, he’s going to have to call me back.”
I didn’t think a perky “Have a nice day!” would be the right note to end a cryptic message with my absentee father, so I simply disconnected and clutched at Ben’s blankets with trembling fingers.
I’d done it. I had called him.
I had chosen my path, made my bed, fallen further down the rabbit hole—insert cliché here—but with that decision made, the worst had to be over. No more stumbling blind. No more hesitation. From this point on, I could face whatever conflict came my way without flinching.
Too bad, I didn’t believe a word of my own lies.
“Toughen up, Emmy!” I snarled into the silence of Ben’s bedroom. “You don’t want people to push you around? Then you need to fight back.”
Go for the jugular, girl.
Trust nobody.
The Slate clutched in my hand began to ring and my heart seized with a strangling panic.
Time to find out if those warnings applied to my own father.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist without the tireless help and support of my agent, Shannon Hassan. You pushed me creatively, and I am so grateful that you did. Thank you. You are amazing. I also want to extend an enormous thank-you to my fabulous editor Jacquelyn Mitchard and her wonderful team at Merit for bringing this book to life! It means the world to me.
I’m incredibly lucky to have patient family members and friends. A special thanks to my mom for listening to every possible plot twist. My writing sprint partner, Alicia Thompson, for forcing me to face the blank page. Diana Wiener for a thousand and one supportive words and coffee-shop visits! Marina Adair for some truly incredible advice. Laura Fraley for laughing with me when I can’t sleep because I’m too afraid of my own imaginary villains. I need to thank Tracy Wolff, Erica Cameron, MK Meredith, Cecily White, Hannah Jayne, Abigail Dock, Katrina Galka, Lisa Lin, Paula Stokes, Anja Johnson, Jen Maneja, Angela Bailey, and oh man, a few hundred other amazing people who have given me hugs/coffee/laughter/endless encouragement. You know how much I love ya!
Lastly, I want to thank my fans. You make me feel like the luckiest writer in the whole freaking world. Thank you for believing in me. Each of you is infinitely precious to me!
All my love,
Marni