Why Did It Have to Be You?

by Allyson Charles

  “What’s with the suitcase, Dad?” If there was a thread of panic lacing her voice, it could be forgiven. The last time she’d visited her father, she’d found mold growing on the surface of water in a pot in his sink. How did water even mold? He wasn’t someone she wanted staying in her house.

  “My place is going through some renovations.” The suitcase bumped against his knees as he climbed her porch steps. “Thought I’d come spend time with my girl.”

  Miss Eugenie gave her a commiserating look, and squeezed Connie’s arm. “Good luck with that.” She walked down Connie’s drive, heading for the main road that connected their houses. Connie guessed she didn’t want to hike through the underbrush without her galoshes.

  Connie longed to follow her down the driveway. Instead, she turned to her house, leaning the butterfly net next to the front door before entering. The suitcase was sitting at the foot of her staircase, and her dad was boots up on the sofa, remote control clutched firmly in his hand.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically.

  He didn’t notice. “Thanks. Hey, can you grab me a beer?”

  She sank down on the edge of an ottoman. “I don’t drink anymore, Dad. I’ve told you this.”

  “Not even beer?”

  She shook her head.

  He turned back to the television. “I’ll pick some up later.”

  “Dad…”

  He flicked his fingers, waving away her concerns. “It’s just beer. It’s not like you had a real problem, anyhow.”

  That was debatable. She didn’t know if she had a problem with alcohol. She’d seemed to turn to it more and more during the stresses of the past couple years. Had started acting in ways she was ashamed to remember now. Actually, giving up drinking hadn’t been difficult. Her body didn’t miss it. But even if she didn’t technically have a problem, she was going to make damn sure she never developed one. She was keeping an alcohol-free house.

  “If you want beer, you’re going to have to keep it at your trailer. What happened to it anyhow? I didn’t think your landlord was the type of guy to make any improvements.”

  “That cheapskate?” Said the man who’d made it an art form to always buy ‘the next round.’ He swung his feet over to her coffee table, and wiggled his butt deeper into the sofa cushion, getting comfortable. A smudge of dirt smeared across the glass top under his heel. “He wouldn’t make any renovations if the place burned down around my ears. No, I left. Looking for something better.”

  “You got kicked out of another place?” She didn’t understand why she was disappointed. He didn’t have to maintain a steady residence for her anymore. She was an adult and capable of taking care of herself. Growing up, it would have been nice to have a feeling of permanence, instead of always wondering if she was going to come home to an eviction notice. She’d been too ashamed to invite friends over, embarrassed of the squalor she’d lived in, worried that her dad would try to act like one of her friends instead of like a father.

  Her love of fashion stemmed from that shame. Nice clothing became a shield. If she wore the latest styles, people wouldn’t look at her with pity. They wouldn’t see the girl whose mother had abandoned her and whose father couldn’t give her a stable childhood. To her teenaged self, the designer logos stitched into the back of her jeans had been worth every hard-earned penny.

  Shoulders hunched, Connie rested an elbow on her thigh and propped her chin in her palm. Instead of buying clothes with the tips from her double-shifts, she should have started a rent fund for her father. It would have saved her a lot of grief. Connie looked at his boots on her table, at his suitcase in her front hall, at the way he took over her favorite spot, taking control of her remote. She swallowed past the sour taste in her mouth. “Have you found another job yet?”

  “I’m considering my options.”

  A wave of panic swept through her. She couldn’t live with her father. The day she’d turned eighteen, she’d moved out of his latest trailer and never looked back.

  She loved the man, but she didn’t like him much. “How”—she cleared her throat—“how long do you think you’ll be here?”

  “Not long, sweet stuff.” He pressed a button on the remote. “Where are the rest of your channels? I’ve run through the whole list and you’ve only got, like, twenty stations. And five of those are foreign.”

  “I only have basic cable.” She ran through all the contacts she knew in her head. Somewhere, someone had to have a job opening. An opening for a fifty-six-year-old failed car salesman, failed plumber, failed music producer. A failed everything with a bum knee and a tendency to take a nap at 3 p.m. regardless of whether he was on the clock or not.

  “Where have you applied for jobs?” No need to go over old territory. She thought she’d seen a Help Wanted sign down at Fred’s garage. She’d call him tomorrow.

  “Oh, I’m in no rush. Not when I can spend some time with my favorite kid.” He winked, all charm and bullshit.

  She’d call Fred today. “Look, Dad, I won’t be available much. I’m busy with my case. When I’m not at the office, I’m working here at home. And I can’t have any distractions.”

  “I’ll be quiet as a dormouse.” He turned the volume up on her TV. “You got any cheese and crackers? Pretzels?”

  “Dad—”

  “You know who you should talk to?” He clicked off the television. “If you want help with your case, you need to talk to Ted Wallace down at city hall.”

  Connie unlaced her sneakers and toed them off. Crossing one foot over her knee, she massaged the arch. “Why would I talk with Ted?”

  “He’s done some deals with Carelli. Knows where the bodies are buried, if you know what I mean.”

  She stilled her hands. “And why would Ted talk with me? Wouldn’t he be implicating himself?”

  Her father snorted. “After their latest redevelopment plan fell through, and Ted lost his bid for the state senate, well, let’s just say there’s no love lost between him and Carelli. I’m sure he’d love to give you the scoop.” He scratched his belly. “Without giving up what he was involved in.”

  Connie chewed on her lip. There wasn’t a downside to getting dirt on an opponent. Even if it was irrelevant to the case, the information could always be useful in negotiations. And this info could be relevant in court. If she could establish a pattern of bad acts, Judge Nichols might be more willing to rule that the current permitting process was tainted. So why did the thought of meeting with Ted Wallace twist her stomach? She knew David was a snake. But sniffing out dirt on him felt like a betrayal for some reason. Since she didn’t owe the man any loyalty, it must go against her principles in general.

  Just because the flash of hurt that crossed his eyes at lunch had made him appear human for a second, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t investigate him. And just because his fingers on her leg had sent shivers straight up her spine didn’t mean her feelings toward him had softened in any way, shape, or form.

  No. Nothing had changed. He was still the same man, cutting corners, making dirty deals, and it was her job to fight him.

  Pulling her phone from her front pants pocket, she did a web search for the councilman’s phone number. She called Ted’s office and left a message requesting a meeting. Being fully informed never hurt.

  Her father pushed to his feet and ambled over to his suitcase. “Hey, when you talk to Ted, ask if he’s got any deals in the works he might need some help with. He knows I’m good at keeping my mouth shut.” Hefting his case, he climbed the stairs, the bag banging into each baluster he passed.

  Connie leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. Great. Here she was going after David when she had a crook beneath her own roof. If hypocrisy won lawsuits, she’d be at the top of her field.

  Chapter Seven

  The harsh clanging of metal gates slamming shut rang in David’s ears. Each time he came to Kincheko Correctional Facility, the walls became a little mor
e oppressive, the barred windows and doors that much more claustrophobic. And he didn’t have to stay. He wondered how Zeke could stand it.

  His sister paced next to their assigned table in the visitor’s room. “I don’t even know what to say to him anymore. It’s like everything I taught him, he wants to throw back in my face. I don’t know what to do.”

  David settled back in the orange plastic chair, and watched the door that Zeke would arrive through. “The time for doing something is over. At least for the next three years.” He couldn’t believe that a couple of kids lifting some high-end electronics from a house would merit such a hefty sentence. Yes, Zeke was carrying a pocketknife in his waistband when he’d been caught. He wouldn’t have used it on anyone, though. He knew the house was empty, but he didn’t know about the state-of-the-art alarm system.

  The left side of Tracy’s mouth curled in disgust. “That’s helpful, David. Thank you.” She resumed pacing.

  Crossing one leg over the other, he tapped his fingers on his thigh. “What, exactly, do you want me to do? I got Zeke the best criminal attorney in your county. The kid made his own bed.”

  Plopping the clear plastic bag she used as a purse for these visits onto a matching orange chair, Tracy parked her hands on the seat back and leaned toward him. “Until four months ago, I made his bed. Me. His mother. And maybe that was part of the problem. I babied him because he was my baby. Still is, and always will be. I take responsibility for my part in who Zeke’s become.” Her fingers whitened around the chair’s rim. “But you’re responsible, too. Stop acting like you aren’t.”

  A muscle spasmed in David’s jaw. He’d suspected that his sister had blamed him, but her saying it out loud still hurt. “What did I do?” he asked between gritted teeth. “Besides buying you a home, paying for a nanny and your tuition so you could get your degree. Paying for Zeke’s private school. Making sure you and Zeke never wanted for one damn thing.” He stood up fast, and his chair toppled over behind him. One of the guards patrolling the room snapped his head around at the sound. David lifted a hand in apology, and bent over to right the chair. “Tell me again how me supporting you for half our lives makes me responsible for Zeke’s current situation?”

  Tracy opened her mouth to respond, but the door swung open, and Zeke shuffled inside, a guard a step behind him. Placing a firm hand on Zeke’s shoulder, the guard pressed him into another plastic chair and unlocked the handcuffs around his wrists. “You have ninety minutes,” he told them, and left. David looked at the barred door and wished he could leave with the man.

  Bending over, Tracy gave her son a big hug. Zeke started to reach an arm around her back, flinched, and pressed a hand to his side instead.

  “How are you feeling?” David asked.

  Zeke snorted, like that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. He turned to his mother, who’d settled in the other chair, placing her purse on the floor. “Did you bring tokens for the vending machine?”

  “No, ‘Hi, Mom, how are you doing?’” David asked sharply.

  Zeke slid his gaze to him. “Business first, right? That’s your motto, isn’t it?”

  David narrowed his eyes, but it didn’t sound like the kid was trying to insult him, just stating the facts. David was tired of playing the role of the evil capitalist. “If I was always business first, I wouldn’t be here,” he grumbled, but no one was listening.

  “Do you have them?” Zeke asked his mom again.

  Tracy dug in her pocket, and dropped a pile of brass coins on the table. “Here you go, sweetie. Get me a soda while you’re at it.”

  Zeke scraped the tokens off the table with one hand and into the other. He popped up and sauntered to the vending machine in the corner. Without asking his uncle if he wanted anything. David gritted his teeth. Maybe he had failed the kid in the manners department.

  Zeke strolled back, cradling a stash of candy bars and chips in his arms. He placed the soda in front of his mom, and sat down.

  “Now tell me how you’ve been feeling,” Tracy said. “Are your stitches healing up okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Zeke inhaled a bag of potato chips, licking his fingers after each bite. “It was a shallow wound.”

  Like getting stabbed was an everyday occurrence for him. Like he hadn’t scared the hell out of his mother and uncle. If they hadn’t been in a prison where their every move was monitored, David would have been tempted to shake some sense into the kid. Make him apologize to his mom for scaring the shit out of her.

  “Well, as long as it was just a shallow wound, I guess it doesn’t matter that you were stabbed. That somebody tried to kill you.” Sarcasm dripped from David’s words.

  Zeke rolled his eyes. “Mustache Mike wasn’t trying to kill me. Just making a point.”

  David scooted his chair closer to the table. Leaning forward, he rested his arms on the metal surface. “You’ve got to be smart in here, Zeke. Keep your head down so no one wants to make a point with you. With good behavior, you could be up for parole in eighteen months.”

  “I know that,” Zeke said, sulking. “And I’m not stupid.”

  Considering where his nephew was currently sitting, David thought that point was debatable, but he let it slide.

  “We know you’re not stupid. We’re just worried about you.” Tracy stretched her arm across the table and grabbed Zeke’s hand. “Is there something you need? Something I can get you?” Tracy asked.

  “Besides a better lawyer?” Zeke looked at David from the corner of his eye.

  David sat back. Was that where all this animosity was coming from? His nephew thought he’d hired a bad attorney? “Your lawyer was one of the best. He got you a three-year sentence when you could have received up to ten years for burglary while in possession of a deadly weapon. Don’t blame your lawyer for the mess you’re in.” And stop blaming me.

  “Why didn’t we use your lawyer?” Zeke whined. At that moment, he sounded more like the eight-year-old David remembered instead of this eighteen-year-old man-child. David’s heart clenched at the memory of the boy who’d loved Pokémon and Power Rangers, and eating a McDonald’s Happy Meal with his uncle. “Your guy is always getting you out of trouble,” Zeke continued. “You always get away with everything.”

  Blood pounded in David’s ears, drowning out whatever his sister was saying. His heart knocked against his ribs, a dull pain settling around the organ. That’s what his nephew thought of him? That he was some con person who bought his way out of trouble? Had the boy been taking his cues from him? Did Zeke think that he’d also be able to get away with anything, even breaking and entering? The buzz in his ears turned into a roar.

  David interrupted Tracy. “My attorney doesn’t practice criminal law.” And he didn’t help David get away with anything—he just helped him navigate the lawsuits that every businessman encounters. Well, every aggressive businessman.

  David rose to his feet. “I’ll give you two some time alone.” When he passed Zeke, he pressed a hand to his shoulder, squeezed, but the kid didn’t even look up. David exited the room, his legs as heavy as stone.

  Son of a bitch. Zeke did think his uncle was a crook. Was that how everyone saw him? David played hard, and played to win, but that didn’t make him a bad guy. Sure, his opponents didn’t like him, those general contractors he’d run out of business or those that he beat for a contract. But he had a lot of happy clients, too. Those that appreciated the quality work he provided, at a competitive price.

  David leaned against the wall in the hallway outside the visiting room, and felt the guard’s eyes on him. He turned his back, resting one shoulder on the cool brick.

  His clients did appreciate his work, but he had to admit that none of them seemed to like him much. None of them took him out for drinks as he’d seen some of Colt McCoy’s clients do. There was no back-slapping or easy banter. It was purely business, and that was fine. That was the way David liked it. He didn’t have time for that shit an
yway. No time to bowl a few games with the guys down at the Pins ‘N’ Pints. No time to spend a day fishing with some buddies. If he didn’t work his ass off, he’d let his family down. Except, he’d already done that.

  He didn’t have time for dating either, nothing that lasted more than a few nights. Longer than that, and the woman might think she was in a relationship beyond just sex. But then, that wasn’t only because he’d been busy. That was because the one woman he’d wanted since high school looked at him like he was her enemy. He thought about Connie, with her silky hair and hostile eyes. She probably liked him even less after their disastrous lunch—if you could call it that when they hadn’t even stuck around to eat.

  Rubbing the knuckle of his thumb into his chest, David had to accept facts. Connie had never liked him. Would never like him. And he was starting to understand why. If his own family thought he was scum, how could he expect her to see him any differently? He needed to grow up and get the hell over her.

  And get back to helping his family. He straightened and strode over to the guard. The man tensed, and David slowed his pace. He didn’t want to get tased. David put on his widest smile and stretched out a hand. “Hi, Officer…Collins,” he read from the name stitched on the uniform.

  Officer Collins ignored his hand, but gave him a slow nod.

  “I’m family of Zeke Carelli.”

  The man nodded again. “Figured as much.”

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of what happened last week with my nephew”—the guard lifted a bushy eyebrow, and David shook his head—“right, of course you are. Well, as you can imagine, I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Officer Collins stared at him, unblinking.

  David inhaled sharply. He was getting tired of the stone-face act. David added a little aw-shucks dimple to his smile. “Do you have kids, Officer Collins?”

  The guard didn’t answer. David looked for a wedding band. He didn’t see one, but there was a faint tan line around the man’s third finger. He probably didn’t want to advertise his family to any of the criminals under his control. Smart.