64
Ayaka sounds like the grand dame of the yacht club greeting the newest member, a youngster who’s the Right Kind of People but still has to serve for sixty years to earn anything beyond the barest courtesy. That patronizing tone ought to combust my bones.
My anger ices my marrow instead.
Deke’s face is tight, pulling the cross-shaped scar on his cheek even more out of square. He nods at me.
I need to get on with this.
I keep my voice brisk and businesslike. “You rang?”
“I completely understand why you’re doing this,” Ayaka says.
“You’re not an i***t,” I say.
“If I’d known the troublemaker was your daddy, I would have picked another way.”
Daddy? I’d never called Father “Daddy.” No, she’s trying to unbalance me. “If an old drunk night watchman gave you trouble, you’ve gotten soft.
