Every instinct he had developed over 38 years of navigating a world that was quick to judge and slow to forgive screamed at him to walk away. This was exactly the kind of situation he had spent his entire life avoiding. The kind where intentions didn't matter, where the optics could destroy you before the truth ever had a chance. But Harry also thought about his daughter and the kind of man he wanted her to believe he was. He walked back to where Cara was still swaying on her feet.
Miss Carter. He kept his voice low. Professional. Do you have someone I can call to pick you up? She looked at him with glassy eyes, struggling to focus.
Harry, what are you? Why are you still here? Do you have someone I can call? He repeated. Family? a friend.
Carara shook her head slowly, then winced at the movement. No one here. Rachel's in. She's in Boston. My phone is dead.
What about your address? I can call you a cab. She stared at him blankly, then laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. I just moved last week. I don't I can't remember the new address.
It's in my phone, which is dead. Another laugh. This one closer to a sob. God, I'm pathetic. Harry felt the weight of his car keys in his pocket.
7:03. Ella would be going on at 8. He could leave. No one would blame him. No one would even know, but he would know.