was horribly broken.
She would fix it.
Dammit.
“Hey, Coach. How are ya feeling today?” she asked. When she was little she’d tried calling him Dad a time or two but he always insisted she call him Coach. Even before her parents divorced.
“I’m okay,” he said, slurring his words. The last stroke had seemed to sap his will. There was something inside him that seemed to be keeping him from recovering. She wondered if not being able to work out and stay physically fit for the first time in his life was affecting him.
She had no idea. He barely talked to her. She was tempted to leave him in the care of the two in-home nurses, but she didn’t want to be that kind of daughter.
And she felt guilty.
She knew if her mom were in the bed, well, Ferrin would be here no matter what. She owed at least as much to the man who’d given her half her DNA.
“That’s good to hear. It’s a beautiful day today so after breakfast, we’re going out to sit in the garden.”
“No.”
She ignored him and went to the windows to open the drapes. Coach liked to keep the room dark; she’d thought at first maybe he had some light sensitivity from the stroke but his doctors informed her he didn’t. The only thing keeping him in the dark was his desire to hide. It was as if there was something emotional inside that was causing him to retreat from the world.
She opened up one heavy drape and then the others. The Pacific Ocean was visible from Coach’s bedroom. The frothy surf contrasting with the deep blue water and the rolling waves promised relaxation. Something that had evaded her since the moment she’d arrived on the West Coast.
“Leave them,” he said again, slurring his words.
She hated hearing him like that. As estranged as their relationship had always been, she’d liked that her dad was strong. And he wasn’t anymore.
“Just while you eat your breakfast. Joy is bringing it up and I’m going to eat with you. You know I don’t like eating in the dark.”
Ferrin had found if she ate with her father then he finished most of his food. She suspected he ate so he didn’t have to talk to her, and she didn’t mind. The doctors said eating well and getting him out of the bed were the keys to his recovery. So she’d do whatever she had to.
“Fine.”
He sounded surly, which almost made her smile. At least he wasn’t pretending to sleep or ignoring her.
“You received another letter from the school yesterday. They are honoring you—”
“No.”
“No?” she asked, pushing the button on the bed that raised the back. The college had refitted his room with state-of-the-art medical equipment after the first stroke. And they’d hired Joy, the housekeeper, as well as two in-home nurses.
“I don’t want their guilt offering,” he said. His words were a lot clearer than they’d been earlier.
She adjusted the sheets over his lap, reached for his empty breakfast tray and placed it on the bed. “It’s not guilt.”
“How do you know?”
She knew guilt. “They’re honoring you, Coach, because you brought a lot of accolades to the school.”
And money.
Winning meant money and her father had been one of the winningest coaches in the history of the college.
“Where’s breakfast?” he asked, slurring again.
She went to the hall and signaled Joy to bring in the food. Joy set everything up and then left.
“I want you to think about accepting this honor,” Ferrin said as she ate her yogurt and fruit.
Her father had a difficult time eating but would accept no assistance from her. It was something she’d learned the hard way. He was slow lifting his right hand to his mouth and he chewed awkwardly. The left side of his face still wasn’t fully functional. But he tried.
“If I take it,” he said, looking up at her, his usually hazy green eyes almost clear, “then that means I’m not going back.”
She didn’t say anything.
He wasn’t going back. But maybe believing he could would help him recover.
“I’m not sure it means that, but we can talk about it later,” she said.
She should try to get some of his players to come up here and talk to him. That would cheer him up, and maybe hearing from the people he’d always wanted to spend time with would give her a key to understanding her father. A man who was still a stranger despite the past two weeks she’d spent living with him.
The doorbell rang as Joy was helping clean up the trays.
“I’ll get it,” Ferrin said, anxious to leave the doom of her father’s room.
* * *
Hunter Caruthers rolled up to the Carmel mansion in the middle of the afternoon. He’d spent the day in the dusty archive room at his alma mater, the University of Northern California, trying to find more evidence to clear his name in the murder of his college girlfriend ten years ago.
All he’d found was that he hadn’t outgrown his dust allergy. Even though his mom had always said he would. He was the youngest son of five from a big old Texas ranching family. His parents loved God, cattle, family and football. Since he’d never really loved the land the way his brothers had, Hunter had started playing football.
He’d found religion in football. He wasn’t trying to aggravate anyone—especially his mom—when he said that, but he saw the world through football. He got that if no one had his back and he was wide open, he’d get the pass and then probably have to face down two or three opposing players by himself. Or he might run like all the demons in hell were chasing him and make a touchdown—become the hero of the game.
Same thing in life.
Sometimes he had to be out in the open, exposed, to make the big plays. There had been one guy who always had his back. Kingsley Buchanan. King had never wavered. He’d always stood right by his side.
They’d been arrested—and then later released—for a crime they didn’t commit and that had sealed the bond between them. Guys always wanted to talk to him about his trophy-winning college career, women wanted to sleep with him because—and he was quoting here—they thought he was “dangerous,” and no one wanted to really get too close to him because questions still remained.
Who had killed Stacia Krushnik? What had Kingsley and Hunter done that night? And answers seemed to be getting harder and harder to come by.
In ten years memories had faded and evidence already in short supply had disappeared.
So that was why he’d parked his Bugatti in the circle drive
