“And you’re very kind and diplomatic.”
“I wish I knew more.” Emily glanced down the
hall toward the ICU. “I’ve been trying to get word, but I’m not family and this
is the first time I’ve seen your father. Or…anyone.”
“She’s been in here for ten hours and he
hasn’t been by?” Fighting off a wave of fury, Derian closed her fist until her
nails bit into her palm and washed away the red haze clouding her thoughts.
“Still the same old bastard, I see.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Don’t worry. I know how things work. I got
here soon as I could.” Derian rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “I didn’t
know she was sick. We haven’t talked in a while.”
“I’m not sure she was aware either. I think
she might have told me, had she known.”
“You’re close, then—I mean, friends?” Derian
tried to pinpoint the last time she and Henrietta had done more than exchange a
quick email. Last year before the race in Sochi? Time blurred, a repetitive
loop of hotels, soirées, and meaningless
conversations. Henrietta was the only person she ever really opened up to, and
she hadn’t done that in a very long time. If she had, she’d have to put words
to things she didn’t want to own.
“I think we are,” Emily said softly. “She
means the world to me—of course, we’re not fami—”
Derian scoffed. “Family is an overrated
concept. I’m glad you were with her. And I’m glad she has you.”
“You must’ve broken some kind of record
getting here—weren’t you somewhere in Europe?”
Emily gripped her forearm, an unexpectedly
comforting sensation. Derian regarded her curiously. “How did you know?”
Emily wasn’t about to confess that she often
followed celebrity news, mostly for entertainment and relaxation to break the
rigors of the concentrated work of screening manuscripts and studying
production layouts. Whenever Derian Winfield was mentioned, usually accompanied
by a photo of her with a race car or some glamorous woman, she took note. She’d
always thought Henrietta’s niece was attractive, but the glossy photos hadn’t
captured the shadows that swirled in the depths of her eyes or the sadness that
undercut the sharp edges of her words. “Perhaps Henrietta mentioned it.
Somewhere in Europe, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Fortunately, I had access to a
plane.” Derian winced and took stock of her appearance. “Although I look somewhat
like a street person at the moment.”
“No,” Emily said with a faint laugh. “You
most certainly do not. You do look tired, though.”
Derian touched a finger beneath Emily’s chin
and tilted her head up. “And you look beyond tired. How long have you been
here?”