More, Sloan Parker [guided reading books TXT] 📗

I flipped through the latter but if there was anything of significance, I'd have to take the book with me to give it a more careful look. I put it back and opened the last drawer.

A bottle of whiskey and a glass. I removed both. The bottle was nearly empty. The glass smelled of the liquor. How often do you need this, Dad?

I bent to put them back and stopped short. A leather-bound book lay face down in the bottom of the drawer. Sitting near the back was a small jewelry box. I ditched the whiskey and glass on the desk.

The black box was old, the corners crushed in, and the hinge on the lid was loose as if it'd been opened many times over the years. I lifted the lid. A silver pocket watch lay against the blue velvet lining.

I forced myself to set the watch down and turn the book over. There in gold print was a name: “Daniel Lukas Conner.”

I stared at the journal. Danny Conner's full name meant nothing and everything at once.

I turned to the first page, and a paper slipped out and fell to the floor. I fetched it and carefully unfolded it, my hands shaking. Fear of being discovered? Or fear of what I was about to discover?

The handwritten letter was dated the day before Danny Conner died.

John,

Happy graduation.

I want you to have my dad's watch. It's the only thing I have that means anything to me. Except for you. I'd be honored if you'd keep it.

I'm sorry for our fight the other night. I'd give anything not to see you hurting like this. I want to be able to tell you all of this in person, but I know you'll argue back. I know you'll give me the same reasons you already have. I know you want a career. A family. A wife. A son. Elizabeth seems like a lovely person, someone who could give you the life you're looking for. I want to be strong enough to walk away for you. But I can't. I love you. I want a life with you. A friendship. A partnership. A life together. I don't understand how you can't. I know how you feel about me. I feel it every time we're together.

Please tell me how you can let us go. I need to understand. Don't give me your reasons again, just tell me how you expect us to live without each other. How you expect me to stop loving you.

How you can stop loving me.

Danny

I flipped through the book, spotting one passage after another that depicted a year-long love affair between my father and Danny Conner. The last page was dated one week after Conner's death and was penned in my father's handwriting.

I'm sorry, Danny. Sorry for what I've done to you, what I had to do. My greatest regret is I never told you the words you needed to hear... I love you. I think I'll love you until I take my last breath.

The blood rushed out of my head. I felt cold, dizzy. My hands shook more, the words on the paper blurring.

Was it easier to confess your love to a dead man?

I slipped the letter inside the journal and returned everything to the drawer. The FBI needed to be the ones to find it. Not that it proved anything. But a confession would.

I stood. Before moving away from the desk, I reached into the drawer, removed the silver watch from the box, and slipped into my pocket.

Footsteps sounded somewhere down the hall. I pressed the lock button on the keypad and scrambled for the door. I just made it into the living room when he stepped up behind me. I faced him.

Despite the late hour, and his supposed migraine, my father wore a dark suit, dress shoes, cuff links, and a tie clip. Even in his own home, the man didn't know how to be casual or relaxed.

“I never would have guessed you'd show up here.” His voice brimmed with hatred.

“There are things that must be said. Sometimes a man has to say them in person.” The fear and anxiety were but a memory. This man was no father to me. I would not let him torment me or anyone else again.

He chuckled, the sound tense, flat, devoid of any joy, the laughter of a man who knew nothing but his own ambitions. “Yes, and sometimes a man must take every precaution.” He moved to a nearby table, grabbed the phone, and dialed a single number. “Come into the living room. I need you to check someone.” He hung up the phone and crossed his arms over his chest.

I was about to tell him of my refusal to comply with his demands when Fowler entered the room and came at me.

I stumbled backward a few steps and heard my father's empty laughter again. I stilled. I would give neither of them any satisfaction.

Fowler reached out for me. He held a long, black object in his hand. I swung at him and knocked his arm away.

He grasped his forearm. “Fuck. You shit.” He lifted the device he carried. “I'm checking you for any weapons or listening devices.”

“No. I don't have either.” I staggered back. My calves smacked into an ottoman, and I tripped. I caught myself before I fell. I was trapped. A couch sat on one side, my father on the other, and this shithead in front of me.

“Well, I don't think I'll take your word for it.” He moved the wand over my feet and worked his way up. My breath quickened. The device made no sound until it passed over my chest.

I squeezed my eyes shut. The rapid beeping gave me away. I opened my eyes and saw the fury in the man's face before me.

My father's voice rang out. “Did you think I wouldn't suspect you'd try to trap me? You're my son after all; you've got intelligence. I'll give that to you.”

Fowler threw the wand on