. . . which leads me to another realization.
“You didn’t tell,” I breathe. “You had every reason to betray me and you didn’t.”
He laughs; it’s an ugly sound, heavy with misery and derision. “Don’t mistake me for something I’m not. I haven’t learned benevolence in the time we’ve been apart. I went to Dylan.”
“But that’s not possible; Mr. Freeland would have—”
“Dylan Freeland has always been like a father to me,” Dave says in a frightening monotone. “He’s always been there for me. I love him, Kasie.”
His voice shakes at this last part. I almost reach for him but stop myself, unsure if our history makes such intimacies prohibited. So instead I just nod sympathetically. “I know,” I say.
“He’s broken. I don’t know what your Mr. Dade has on him—”
“Wait, you’re saying it’s more than just the threat of losing business—”
“Does he enjoy it?” he asks, cutting me off. “Diminishing Dylan like that? Making him feel so weak that he can’t even make decisions for his own company? So weak that instead of helping his godson he tells him to keep quiet. He basically told me that if I know what’s good for me, I’ll tuck my tail between my legs and slink off before more of Robert Dade’s wrath is brought down. So does Mr. Dade get off on the dominance?” He hesitates only a moment before adding, “Do you?”
I keep very still, unwilling to react to what might be a lie. And it could be; Dave has always been a liar. Still . . . there’s something to this story. . . .
Why hasn’t Mr. Freeland been at the firm for a while? Tom being fired, my promotion . . . Mr. Costin had scolded me for it, he was willing to take that risk, but not Mr. Freeland. I cheated on his godson and he hadn’t so much as sent me an angry e-mail.
Why?
Dave is telling you why, my angel says, you just don’t want to hear.
My throat tightens. “Have you told my parents? I understand if you did. I—”
Again there’s the humorless laugh that prickles my heart. “I won’t tell your parents. Believe it or not, I value my life, what little is left of it.”
Again the baby screams. “Your life? Are you trying to tell me that your safety has been threatened?” I whisper.
Again Dave bows his head. I think I see a tear. “What if they push the embezzlement charge?”
“You just said they wouldn’t if you left.”
“But they could. Don’t you get it? I’m completely at their mercy and they’re following his directives. I know it, Kasie. I don’t know if he’s bribed people or threatened them or what, but they’re letting him decide my fate. And he wants to destroy me, Kasie.”
“He would never take it that far.”
Dave looks up at me, bewildered. I don’t blame him; it was a stupid thing to say. I don’t think Robert would take it that far, but then again I didn’t think he’d do this, either. Any of it. It never even occurred to me.
I’ve let Robert Dade change my entire life . . . and I don’t even know who he is.
“Do you think I would survive in prison, Kasie?” he asks. “Do you see me getting through a single day in jail?”
No, I didn’t. Dave was too soft, too vulnerable. Even the tattooed skateboarders on the road along Venice Beach made him nervous. He wouldn’t be able to cope with living among drug dealers and pimps.
Another tear slips down Dave’s cheek and I wonder if any painter has ever been able to capture the essence of desperation the way Dave’s expression does now.
“Help me,” he says.
CHAPTER 11
THIS TIME IT’S me who waits for Robert. I sit in his leather armchair. In my glass there is only water, nothing to soften my edge or dull my intellect. I don’t light candles; there is no fire in the fireplace, no velvet dresses or leather ties. Tonight I reject the fantasy. Tonight I want the truth.
When he returns home, he senses it. It takes less than two seconds for him to register that the mood is one of confrontation and not romance, two more seconds for him to adjust.
How does he do that? Make these sharp emotional turns with the agility of a sports car? How can any human being do that?
But then Robert has always been a little more than human. A little more and, oddly, a little less.
“You didn’t have to hurt Dave. He wasn’t hurting us.”
He studies me for a moment as if extracting from my words and the hard line of my mouth the extent of what I know. “He hurt you before,” he finally says, calm, unperturbed. “Eventually he would have done it again. All I did was launch a necessary preemptive strike.”