“Hey, Dad.” I bounced up and kissed him on his grumpy bear cheek.

“Hon, can I talk to you?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely. I’ll be right back,” I said to Cookie.

Dad nodded to her, then closed the door between our offices, not that it would help. That door made cardstock look indestructible.

“Is this about the coffee?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“Coffee?”

“Oh”—whew—“um, want a cup?”

“No, you go ahead.”

I made a quick cup of contraband coffee, then sat behind my desk as he folded himself into the chair across from me. “What’s up?” I asked.

His gaze flitted toward me, paused, then veered off again, never quite touching mine. Not a good sign.

With a heavy sigh, he said what was on his mind in all its psychotic glory. “I want you to quit the investigations business.”

Though his statement was only slightly less welcome than chlamydia, I had to give him kudos for using the direct approach. For a former detective who’d retired with honors, he could be the most evasive man in my immediate gene pool, so this was a nice change.

But give up my business? The same business I’d built from the ground up with my own two hands and designer Louis Vuittons? The same business for which I’d sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears? Well, maybe not sweat and tears, but there was blood. Lots of blood.

Give it up? Not likely. Besides, what else would I do? I totally should’ve gone to Hogwarts when I had the chance.

I shifted in my chair as Dad waited for a response. He seemed determined, his resolve unwavering. This would take tact. Prudence. Possibly Milk Duds.

“Are you psychotic?” I asked, realizing my plan to charm and bribe him if need be flew out the window the minute I opened my mouth.

“Charley—”

“Dad, no. I can’t believe you’re even asking this of me.”

“I’m not asking.” His sharp tone brought me up short, and all the huffing and puffing that had built beneath the surface slammed into me, knocking my breath away. Was he serious? “You can tend bar for me full-time until you find something else.”

Apparently.

“Unless, of course, you want to stay on. I could use someone to do my books, keep inventory, and do the ordering.”

What the hell?

“But I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I can help you get on somewhere else. Or you could go back to school, get your master’s.” He looked hopeful. “I’ll pay for it. Every cent.”

“Dad—”

“Noni Bachicha is looking for a new office manager.”

“Dad, re—”

“He’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

“Dad, stop.” I bolted out of my chair to get his attention. When I had it, I placed both my palms on the desk, leaned forward, and said as nicely as I could, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I threw my hands into the air, flabbergasted. “For one thing, this isn’t just about me. I have employees.”

“You have Cookie.”

“Exactly, and I hire other investigators when the situation warrants, as well.”

“Cookie can get a job anywhere. She’s overqualified and you know it.”

He was right. I didn’t pay her nearly what she was worth, but she liked it here. And I liked her here. “And I have a case. I can’t just pack up and call it a day.”

“You didn’t accept his money. I heard you. You don’t have a case.”

“There’s a woman missing.”

He stood as well. “And that man did it,” he said, pointing toward the front door. “Just tell your uncle Bob and stay out of it.”

I let the frustration I felt slip past my lips. “I have resources they don’t. You know that better than anyone. I can help.”

“Yes, by passing along anything you get to your uncle.” He leaned forward. “And staying out of it.”

“I can’t do that.”

His shoulders deflated, anger and regret churning inside him. “Will you please just think about it?”

I stood dumbfounded by the whole idea. My own father asking me to give up my livelihood. My calling. I should’ve known something was up when he tried to have me killed.

He turned to leave, so I cornered the desk and clutched his arm much more desperately than I’d have liked. “Dad, what brought this on?”

“You can’t guess?” He seemed surprised that I’d asked.

I fought to pinpoint his exact meaning. This was my dad. My best friend growing up. The only person I could turn to, who believed me, in what I could do, without looking at me like I was a sideshow freak. “Dad, why?” I tried to squelch the hurt in my voice. It didn’t work.

“Because,” he said, his voice harsh, “I can no longer sit idly by and watch as you’re beaten, kidnapped, shot at … hell, you name it, and it’s happened since you started this business.” He raised his hands, indicating my office—his second floor—as though the building were somehow at fault.

I stepped back and plopped back into my chair. “Dad, I’ve been solving crimes since I was five, remember? For you.”

“But I never put you in the thick of things. I kept you out of it.”

I couldn’t help the harsh bark of laughter that escaped me. Of all the asinine things to say. “Two weeks ago, Dad. Or have you already forgotten the target you painted on my back?” It was a cheap shot, but so was his coming in here and basically demanding I quit my job.

The guilt that seemed to swallow him whole bit into my resolve. I fought it. No matter what his intentions had been when that ex-con came after us, he’d handled it poorly, and now he was taking it out on me.

“Fine,” he said, his voice soft, “I deserve that, but what about the others? The time that angry husband came after you with a gun. The time those men kidnapped you and beat you to a pulp before Swopes showed up. The time that kid hit you and sent you crashing through the thirty-foot roof of a warehouse.”

“Dad—”

“I could go on. For quite a while, in fact.”

I knew he could, but he didn’t understand. Those were all very explainable. I lowered my head, feeling oddly like a pouting child, amazed that my father could make me feel so small. Amazed that he would. “So, your answer is to ask me to give up everything I’ve worked for?”