“Why, Dad? So you can fire me? Threaten to ruin my life like you’re trying to ruin Perry’s?” Devin spits, chest puffing.
He flinches. “How dare you—”
I step forward. “How dare you.” My heart’s beating so hard my vision blurs around the edges. “You act like you care about your sons, but you don’t. Fathers who care don’t try to control their children’s lives. Fathers who care don’t lie, scheme, and plot. And they don’t wield their political connections to execute personal vendettas at the cost of the city.”
Behind Roger, Charlotte motions quickly to the cameraman, who swivels the camera in our direction.
I shake my head. “The sad thing is, you have no idea how wonderful, hardworking, and thoughtful your sons are—both of them. And because you can’t see past your own selfish whims, you’re going to lose them. You’ll wind up an old man, bitter and alone because you drove your family away.”
“Well,” he sneers. “I see you were in on this too. You can kiss your career at Smith & Boone goodbye. Because once I inform Frank—”
With a snort, I fold my arms over my chest. “Do your worst. I see right through you, Roger Szymanski. And now everyone else does too.”
Charlotte snatches a microphone from the cameraman before smoothing her hair. Arranging her expression into one of cool journalistic focus, she strides up to Roger, microphone to her chin. “Excuse me, Roger Szymanski?”
“What?” He turns, and the color leaches from his face.
“Charlotte Owens. Channel Six News. Can you comment on the allegation that you used your political connections with the city of Cleveland to execute a personal vendetta—and against your very own son?”
Roger’s face turns so red it’s practically eggplant. “No comment.” Shoving through the crowd, he storms off in the direction of the festival, Charlotte dogging his heels. The cameraman hoists the massive camera onto his shoulder and follows them at a trot.
“Is there grift at city hall?” she shouts. “What does Szymanski Enterprises stand to gain?” Her voice trails off as they disappear into the distance.
Vindication washes over me, as warm as a heated blanket. Serves Roger right. Maybe he’ll even learn something from all this. For Perry’s sake, I hope he does.
I turn to Brie, who’s staring at me, mouth hanging open.
“I need to find Perry. Now,” I say.
She closes it with a snap. “He was over there a minute ago.” She motions to where he was standing before. “I’d offer to come with, but you’re on a roll. Go get him, girl.”
Grinning, I slide into the murmuring crowd.
“Cass?” Devin shouts after me, and I look back. His chin quivers as he smiles. “Perry’s a lucky guy.”
“Lucky to have you for a brother,” I call back with a grin before pushing forward. I search every face I pass, but none of them are Perry’s. Mom waves at me through the scrum of people, but I don’t go to her. I’ll fill her in about everything later. Once I break free from the throng, I take off at a run toward Blooms & Baubles—the most logical place for Perry to have gone. The soles of my stone-studded sandals slap against the sidewalk in time to my thundering heart.
Why didn’t he stay to talk to me after the segment? I know he missed me telling off his dad, but did he hear me say I love him?
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe this was all a mistake… maybe I’m too late.
I see it then, in the far distance: a splash of Kelly green a block away. My heart leaps and I skid to a stop in front of Blooms & Baubles. Squinting, I can just make out a man wearing a green T-shirt with white writing on the back. He’s walking up Providence Street—away from the festival… and me. His golden-brown hair shines in the afternoon sun.
Perry.
Turning the corner, he disappears onto West Twenty-Seventh Street.
“No, no, no.”
Without thinking, I run to Brie’s car. I know her keyless entry code by heart—4937, the last four digits of her home phone number when she was little—and punch them into the keypad. Opening the door, I launch myself into the driver’s seat and take two deep breaths. My heart hammers and my hands shake as I fish her key out of her glove box and stick it in the ignition. I’d rather face down a hundred Roger Szymanskis than drive, but I have to do this. For Perry. Before it’s too late.
I turn the key, and the engine roars to life. Sweat trickles down my spine, but I grip the steering wheel. I shift into reverse, backing slowly. My tire bumps the curb and I hit the brakes. My thighs tremble and I dry heave. No, that wasn’t an accident. I only grazed a curb. I’m fine. I’m safe. I can do this.