Day five of the Hugh Kane Avoidance Tour, and I'm starting to think I've developed some kind of communicable disease.
Which apparently only affects emotionally unavailable and devastatingly handsome business partners who've had their fingers inside me.
I watch him arrive for another meeting with Dad, his car pulling up like clockwork. He glances toward the library windows, where I'm definitely not lurking like some kind of Victorian ghost.
Then he looks away so fast I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash.
Cool. Very mature. Totally not crushing what's left of my dignity into fine powder.
Dad, meanwhile, has transformed into the Helicopter Parent Final Boss. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?" is asked forty-seven times per day. Each time I answer "fine," he looks more anxious, which is doing wonders for my mental state.
I'm aggressively not reading Pride and Prejudice for the twentieth time this summer, when raised voices drift from Dad's study.
The door's cracked open just enough to be tempting, and because I'm apparently committed to making questionable life choices, I abandon all pretense of having boundaries.
"—can't keep avoiding the inevitable, Richard." That's Hugh, and he sounds tired in a way I've never heard before.
"Don't." Dad's voice cracks slightly. "Don't tell me what's inevitable. She's just nineteen, for Christ's sake."
"I know exactly how old she is." Something dangerous creeps into Hugh's tone. "You think I don't know what this is costing me? What is it costing all of us?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done." The desperation in Dad's voice makes me freeze completely. "After everything that happened with Savannah, I thought... I hoped I could protect her from this."
Savannah. My mother's name, spoken like a prayer and a curse.
"Richard, you can't fight what she is."
What I am? Is it about me?
"Please." Dad's voice breaks completely. "I need more time. Just a little more before—"
My hand is on the door handle before I've made a conscious decision. I push it open, and both men go silent so abruptly it's like someone hit mute on the universe.
"Claire." Dad's at my side immediately, hands hovering like he wants to check me for injuries. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Do you need something?"
"I need to know what you were talking about." I look between them.
"Business matters." Dad's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Nothing that would interest you."
"Didn't sound like business matters."
Hugh still hasn't looked at me. He's gathering his papers with methodical precision, his jaw so tight I'm worried he'll crack his own teeth. "I should go. We'll continue this discussion later, Richard."
"Hugh," I start, but he's already moving past me toward the door.
Close enough that I catch his scent, cedar and something darker, and far enough that he might as well be on another continent. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like the period at the end of a sentence I wasn't done reading.
Dad's still hovering in full concerned-parent mode, anxiety radiating off him in waves. "Why don't we have some tea? Mrs. Walker made those cookies you like."
"I don't want cookies." The words come out sharper than intended. "I want to know what's going on."
"Nothing's going on, I promise." He touches my shoulder gently. "Just business complications. You don't need to worry about any of it."
I want to push. Want to demand answers. Want to shake him until he stops treating me like a child who can't handle reality. But the look on his face, genuine terror mixed with desperate love, makes me back down.
For now.
"Actually, since you're here," he says, steering me toward the leather chair across from his desk. “I have some news. Sit down.”
Which is never a code for anything good, but I agree, because how can I not? I sit down, sinking into the chair, and look at him waiting, hands crossed on my chest. He looks as if he’s trying to diffuse a bomb.
"I've made some arrangements," he starts, and already I don't like where this is going. "For your college education."
"Okay..." I say slowly. "I thought we were going to look at schools together in the fall?"
"I've already handled it." He slides a folder across the desk. "Whitmore University. It's a very prestigious and highly private institution, excellent programs, and I've spoken with the admissions office. You're in."
I stare at the folder like it's a live snake. "Whitmore is in California."
"Yes. It's a wonderful opportunity—"
"It's thee thousand miles away." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "I told you I wanted to stay closer to home. Look at schools in the Northeast."
His hands are actually shaking as he pretends to organize papers that don't need organizing. "This is what's best for your future, sweetheart. You need distance. A fresh start. New experiences."
"A fresh start from what, exactly?" I stand up, anger overriding the shock. "What precisely am I starting fresh from?"
"Claire, please try to understand…"
"Understand what? That you're shipping me across the country without even asking me?" My voice is rising, but I can't seem to control it. "You've controlled every aspect of my life—who I see, where I go, what I study. And now you're just deciding where I'll spend the next four years?"
"I'm protecting you!" The words explode out of him, raw and desperate, as he slams his palm against the table’s surface. "That's all I've ever tried to do! You're all I have left after your mother—"
"After Mom what?" I lean forward, heart hammering. "After she died? Left? You never tell me anything about her, and now you won't tell me why you're really banishing me to California. What exactly are you protecting me from?"
His face crumbles for exactly one second before hardening into resolve. "Some questions don't need answers, Claire. This isn't up for debate."
"I'm not a child anymore!"
"Then stop acting like one." The words are harsh, and I can see him regret them immediately. His expression softens, but his voice stays granite-firm. "I'm trying to make sure you're taken care of. Comfortable, safe. Please, just trust me on this."
"Trust you?" I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "How can I trust you when you won't even be honest with me? When you make decisions about my life like I'm just some... some asset you need to manage?"
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" I'm full-on shouting now, and I don't give a damn who hears me. "I have a right to know what's happening to my own life! Why are you really sending me away? What don't you want me to know?"
"Enough." The word comes out quiet but absolute. "It's done, Claire. The arrangements are made. You're going to Whitmore in September, and I need you to accept that."
He stands, moves toward the door with the efficiency of someone ending a hostile negotiation.
"I have calls to make. We'll discuss this when you're calmer."
He leaves me standing there, and I realize with crystalline clarity that nothing I say will change his mind. The fear in his eyes was real—which somehow makes his refusal to tell me the truth even worse.
I go to my room shaking with rage and confusion and a helplessness I haven't felt since childhood.
I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to demand answers until someone finally gives them to me. Instead, I stand at my window as the sun sets, watching the grounds turn gold and purple.
That's when I see Hugh, walking toward the guest house, shoulders tight with tension, and something inside me snaps.
I'm done waiting. Done being treated like a fragile thing that needs protecting from the truth. Done with everyone making decisions about my life while I'm kept in the dark.
They think I can't handle whatever they're hiding? Watch me.
Hugh wants to avoid me? Too bad.
Dad wants to send me away without explanation? Not happening.
Tonight, I'm getting answers. One way or another. Even if I have to break into the guest house to get them.