Jenna’s dad met them at the airport—her mother was much too busy to bother, still in court. Which was probably not a bad thing. Peter Trindle barely glanced at Andre’s scars when she introduced them; he was much too busy being nervous himself, babbling something about his latest girlfriend as he led them to the car, a small Cadillac hatchback pretending to be a SUV, dwarfed by the Excursions and Suburbans and Tahoes surrounding it in the parking deck.
Becky, a typical California beach blonde who was half Peter’s age, making her younger than Jenna, was waiting in the front passenger seat. She got out when she saw them coming, and finally Jenna realized what her father had been trying to tell her but never actually got around to: the girl was pregnant.
“Dad?” she asked as Andre hoisted their bags into the rear compartment. “How—” Her mom had drawn the line at one child, and made Peter get a vasectomy after Jenna was born. That had become point of contention because every time they argued—the screaming arguments, not the whispered-hushed fights—her dad brought it up, accusing Helen of stealing his manhood and his legacy, which he obviously did not think his daughter ensured.
“It happens. One in a million, the doctor said,” Peter told her, blushing as he smoothed a hand over Becky’s belly. “Our little miracle. It’s a boy. You’re going to have a baby brother, Jenna!”
Things spiraled downhill from there. They drove to the hotel, Jenna and Andre riding in the back, Andre with his face turned to the window not because the concrete and steel that was LA’s freeway system fascinated him but rather to hide his grin, and Jenna kicking herself for forgetting why she’d left this town in the first place: nothing was real here, everything was melodrama. Tinsel and glitter, no substance.
Peter kept talking while Becky sat smiling and nodding. How he’d started a new business—Jenna had lost track of how many “new” businesses her dad had grown bored with and walked away from over the years—and that they were looking for a new apartment “because of the baby coming, you know,” and how hard it was to find one in a good school district “that could fit the tight budget your mother has me on,” and…
“Wait,” Jenna finally interrupted. “Mom knows? About the baby?”
The Judge had had Peter sign the craziest and most unbreakable pre-nup in history. Not only did Peter not get any money from the Galloways if he and Helen divorced, there were also other weird contingencies regulating their marriage even if they stayed together. Like any children kept the Galloway name, which schools they would attend, the Judge and his wife had visitation rights including first pick of holidays and Peter’s family would have to arrange their schedule accordingly—visitation rights spelled out years before Jenna was even born—and, finally, Peter wasn’t allowed to spend more than two nights in a row in the Galloway ancestral home.
Which was why Jenna was a Galloway instead of a Trindle, and why even after all these years of being separated—over two decades now—and Peter’s multiple affairs, her parents had never officially divorced. Well, it was why her father had never divorced her mother; she had no earthly idea why Helen put up with the arrangement. Probably because staying married gave her control over every aspect of Peter’s life… Jenna glanced at Becky’s belly. Almost every aspect.
Peter turned sheepish. “Well, now. She knows about Becky; that we’re serious. But not the baby, per se.” They were stopped in traffic, he turned in his seat to flash her a grin. “Was kinda hoping you could tell her? See if she’d up my allowance?”
Andre had a sudden coughing fit of laughter, and the traffic started edging forward, so all Jenna could do was sit back and wonder why she’d even bothered to come out here. These people didn’t need her protection against a mad bomber; they need protection against themselves.
“Sure, Dad, whatever.” Jenna sighed. “So where are you and Becky staying? Until we can find this guy?” When she’d called, she’d told Peter he needed to hide out for a few days to give her time to investigate, and now she saw their suitcases in the back of the SUV—enough for a few weeks, at least.
“Thought you said we’d be at the hotel with you.” Peter smiled at her in the rearview. “Could have sworn that’s what you said. If that doesn’t suit, I guess we’ll just have to take our chances—money’s tight, what with the baby and all.”
Andre glanced at Jenna, his eyes crinkling as he suppressed his laughter. Yeah, she should have seen that one coming. She wondered if she could deduct the hotel bill from her taxes—maybe make Peter sign on as a client and expense the whole trip? Better than being her own client, that was for certain. “Sure, that works.”
“So tell me about this bomber,” Peter said, finally taking a break from talking about himself. “Why is he targeting me?”