The temp had soared in the upper nineties all week until breaking the barrier today with a whopping 103, and it had been miserable on the subway, but when we got to the address, it was at least nice inside. Even if the guy who answered the door was staring into space.
Dad had been arguing with me all morning, and he was mad I'd asked Sarah to pick him up later, and mad I'd said something snippy about Hob, and I admit, when we got to the house I was supposed to be staying at, I was a little incredulous.
They called it a 'brownstone.' Like…it was a mansion. It was obviously a mansion. They owned the whole building? And it was in Brooklyn? It was a mansion. Way nicer neighborhood than I've ever been allowed near, anyway. How did Dad even know anyone who lived somewhere like this?
I'd been crying, though I was trying to get over it. I hated crying. I hated showing him that he had the ability to make me cry. I hated him.
"Where is he?" my dad said instead of a greeting, once we were inside, with the heat firmly on the other side of the door.
The man didn't look at him when he spoke, he just kept staring fixedly at a point just to the left of Dad's shoulder. "Where is who?" the man asked, polite in the face of my stupid father.
Dad paused. "You know," he tried, at a more appropriate volume. "The, um. The kid." The freak.
What he hadn't said was so obvious to me I scoffed. "My father has the crazy idea there's a monster here," I said, licking my lips. "And that I need to be locked in a dungeon," I added, trying to smile to sell the joke, but failing.
"No monster, miss. At least, none that I can see," the man chuckled, like this was a joke, and then I got it, and I felt so stupid. He was blind. "My employer is a young man of –I am told – unfortunate appearance. He doesn't like to go outside because of it. That's all."
"Then I'm free to leave?" I asked, and my dad shot me a glare, which I returned. He was kicking me out. I guess I'd stay so he'd go to rehab, like he promised, but what else did he expect?
"Of course," the man nodded. "But my employer struck a deal with your father, I believe—your presence here in exchange for his cooperation in not reporting certain criminal acts that were caught on tape."
What?
"Which reminds me…" he withdrew a card from his pocket—my dad's driver's license—and a bag. Oh God. "Your drugs, sir?"
What? The liar. The LIAR. He was a goddamned liar! And what else was fucking new?!
I grabbed the bag from the man before my dad could do so. I was furious. "That's what this is about? You're making me come here so you can get your drugs back?"
"He caught me on tape, girl," Dad growled, "breaking and entering."
Of course. Of course. This had never been about saving me from Hob. I knew Hob, the bastard. He wouldn't murder me for my dad's debt, even if my dad might think so. He liked my looks. He'd been creeping on me since I was fucking thirteen, and it was why, when I saw him at the house, I took the scenic route home. I'd circled the block six times, once, just to make sure he wasn't in the house.
"I'm guessing this wasn't a first offense," the man said distantly, and I tried to tune back in. Let go of my blinding rage. "And the drugs alone would result in a more serious sentence, I believe."
My dad nodded. "Minimum mandatory is fifteen years to life."
Un-fucking-real.
"Life," I said aloud. I turned to the man. "And you? You agree to this…this…my imprisonment?" I blustered.
"My employer…has his reasons," the man said warmly. "And he'll treat you well – better, probably, than…" he stopped speaking before he actually finished the sentence, but I scoffed. "Look, if you want to leave, you may," he started again, "but my employer has the break-in on tape and will bring it to the police."
Let him. I won't. I won't. Whatever he sold me for, I won't cooperate.
But…
I hated myself. That little bit of my little-girl heart that still felt loyalty to my daddy. Like he deserved it.
But he said he'd go to rehab. And Sarah's boyfriend was big and wouldn't take no for an answer. But it wouldn't work, if I left. That wasn't the deal. And I really wanted him to go to rehab.
I looked at my dad. He was my dad. I didn't want him to go to prison.
"You're better off. I'll take that," he muttered, and snatched the bag from my fingers. The bag of drugs I had forgotten I was holding.
And then he slammed the door behind him, only a waft of hot air to tell that he'd been there in the first place.
Well, good riddance! I wanted to scream after him. But I didn't. I remembered him hitting me, when I flushed his stash one time last year. I remembered Hob—
"Please, miss. I can tell you've had a hard day, even though it's only ten o'clock," the blind man said kindly, and I turned to look at him. "Come. I'll show you to your rooms?"
"Rooms? With an s?" I muttered. It was probably too good to be true.
"Yes, miss. They're beautiful rooms. Master Adrian – the young man I work for – he's worked very hard to make certain they're to your liking," as he spoke, he put his cane out, making to walk forward, and I stepped out of his way. He fished in his pocket as he spoke. "He asked me to tell you that if there's anything you require—"
I opened my mouth, but of course he kept going, because he didn't see the visual cue. Right. Blind.
"—anything at all other than a telephone or an Internet connection—" he revised, and I saw that what was in his pocket had been a key. "—to be certain to ask for it. He wants you to be happy here."
I eyed the key and rolled my eyes. "Happy. My jailer thinks I'll be happy? Here? Is he crazy?" I scoffed.
"No, miss." He locked the door with the key, and then turned around again. "I'm Will," he continued. "I too, am at your service. And Magda, the maid, whom you'll meet upstairs. Shall we go?"
And when he turned, he offered me his arm.
I didn't take it, but he started up the stairs momentarily, anyway. I looked at the door – the locked door. And turned to follow him.
