Deadly.
Garrett fell silent.
I clung to my father until my knees nearly gave out. He held me the way he had when I was seven and broke my arm falling out of a tree, the way he had when my mother died, the way he had on my wedding day when he looked Garrett in the eye and said, “If you ever hurt her, you answer to me.”
Back then, Garrett had smiled.
He wasn’t smiling now.
After a long moment, my father eased me back onto the bench. Then he removed his coat and placed it around my shoulders. It smelled like rain, expensive wool, and the old cedar office where Ethan used to sit on his lap and draw dinosaurs on company stationery.
“Where is my grandson?” he asked quietly.
I pointed to the door.
Room 412.
My father turned toward it.
Garrett stepped forward quickly. “I want to see him.”
My father stopped.
The hallway turned colder.
“No,” I said.
The word came out before my father could answer.
Garrett looked at me as if I had slapped him.
“Claire, he’s my son.”
I stared at him.
For years, I had loved that face. I had kissed that mouth. I had defended him to friends who said he traveled too much, worked too late, missed too many birthdays, came home smelling faintly of unfamiliar perfume and always had an explanation ready.
For years, I had mistaken charm for devotion.
But now, under the fluorescent hospital lights, I saw the truth clearly.
Garrett Vale did not look like a father destroyed by grief.
He looked like a man terrified of consequences.
