Chapter Twelve
“Your knees are bleeding,” Sylvester said, around a forkful of macaroni and cheese.
Adalia glanced down at the drying blood and didn’t say a word.
“You want to tell me what happened, girl?” her father asked, dropping his fork into his plate and scooching up on the couch. He was in the living room again, with that blanket draped around his shoulders and a TV dinner clutched between his wrinkled hands.
The illness had aged him over a matter of weeks, and it set off an ache in Adalia’s chest. There was too much guilt to bear. She’d failed her business, her father, and now Trent. Hell, she’d even failed DeShawn on some level, though that seemed a bit of a stretch.
“Adalia,” her father barked, and she straightened. She dropped her fork and pushed the tray away onto the coffe
