Page 18 of The Home Grown
“I’m looking for Bettsy,” I say.
“He’s not around—wait … is this Rochelle?”
I blow out a breath. “No. But do you know where I can find him? It’s urgent.”
The guy sounds exasperated. “Give me a minute.”
The intercom cuts off and I stare at the little speaker in desperation. Should I call him back? Can he pick up the internal handset and connect to me? I’m rolling it over in my mind when the line crackles to my relief.
“You still there?” the voice says.
“Yeah—honestly, I don’t even want to see him. If you could pass a message on for me—maybe give him my number and tell him to text me or something.”
The guy sighs. “Right … but look, I’m sort of busy and?—”
“Please, can you pass on my number?”
He clears his throat. “If you tried an apartment on the eighth floor, you may find that he’s there—though I didn’t tell you that.”
He hangs up, and despite my frustration, I don’t waste anymore time. I hit the button for apartment 801 and wait.
There’re approximately three rings before someone picks up.
“Hello?”
“I’m looking for Mike Betts—Bettsy. I’m looking for Bettsy,” I say, almost robotically.
There’s a pause before the guy responds. “Umm, he’s just stepped out, but who shall I say is calling?”
I freeze, like a rabbit caught in headlights, completely dumfounded that I found him. It takes my brain a second to catch up, realising that the guy on the other side of the intercom is waiting for me to reply.
“Uh … can you tell him it’s Ellie—Ellie Kitchener,” I say, then I add, “Kitch,” because he made that a thing, for some reason. Maybe it’ll prompt a memory, or something.
I’m about to ask the guy on the line if he can take my number to pass on when he speaks again.
“He said he’ll be right down.”
Ah, crap.
My pulse thuds in my ears because I haven’t seen Mike in around eight years, and I have no idea what to expect. Will I recognise him? Will he recognise me?
I take a deep breath, telling myself that all I need to do is hand him Greg’s business card and get the heck out of here. But there’s a noise from inside that has me almost shaking with anticipation …
I think he’s coming.
The door to the stairwell opens, and a figure fills the doorway. He’s wearing a tracksuit, like one of those team issue ones, with the hood of his top pulled up over his head. And a sickly feeling of loathing fills my stomach.
His amber eyes meet mine and there’s a tinge of a smile on his lips.
And he’s got the audacity to have aged well.
As if.
He presses a button on the inside of the lobby and there’s a mechanicalclunkas the door unlatches; and a moment later, I come face to face with Michael Betts.
BETTSY
I blinkseveral times to check my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
