Page 121 of Van Cort
Money, I have. Status I have, too, but asking her to do this with me, with us, is a step that most wouldn’t even consider rational, let alone plausible.
Turning, I go grab her bag and walk back to the garden terrace.
She’s still sitting there, staring and thinking.
“Up,” I say. “We’re going out.”
She shifts her gaze to look at me. “Out?”
My finger beckons as I leave the outdoor space. “Yes. I want to show you something, do something.” It doesn’t matter that West never answered me, or that he’s probably still overthinking how much he hates me, or how much he doesn’t trust me. He’ll say yes. Of course he will, because I would if roles were reversed. It’s who we are.
“What about the pizza?” she says, moving towards me.
I hold one of the boxes up. “We’ll eat on the way.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Andre has pulled around the front of the building by the time we get to the lobby, and the journey through downtown goes by with her picking at pizza and continuously looking at me.
“What’s going on, Everett?” she asks, as we pull up.
I get out and take the pizza box from her, putting it back in the car. “Something to help you understand how I feel.” I hold my hand out for her, smiling. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, that I haven’t, but I do mean what I’m saying, River. I mean it all. None of what has already happened between us would have happened at all if I didn’t.”
She takes my hand and I lead her up the steps. The wide doors stay firmly shut as we approach them, and they don’t open until I send a code via text that needs confirming for entry.
Eventually, one of the doors folds inwards, and a security guard meets me.
The last time I was in the place was the week after our father died. The old lawyer at the time gave me the information necessary to gain access. He had to, despite my father’s insistence that I was never to know. The state had ordered it because they couldn’t function without my newly acquired assets. Previous to that, I never even knew it existed. I doubt West does to this day.
Thumbprint taken, and we’re walked to the manager’s desk where two more security guards meet us, heavily armed at that.
Her hand squeezes in mine, and she tucks herself in tighter to me. “Seriously, what is going on?” she hisses at my side.
“It’s fine, River. Relax.”
“Could you sign this please, Ma’am?” the manager asks her.
“She doesn’t need to,” I answer. “She’s my guest.”
“Mr Van Cort, we need verification of all visitors and-”
“Open the doors, you fucking idiot.”
An exasperated and completely futile sigh from him, followed by several clicks on his keyboard, and we’re moving again. One security guard walks in front of me, another behind the manager who’s leading us to the downward elevator. It’s a silent journey, other than hard soles and heels on marble floors, and it’s filled with a sense of heightened anticipation on their part and morose foreboding on mine. Needs must, though, and the eventual sight of the first set of vault doors waiting for us makes me pull in a slow breath.
Father.
It’s all him still. Even if it’s me now.
The manager offers his hand to the scanner. “Sir, please.”
I lean forward, letting it trace my iris. He scans his own eye to initiate the outer looks, and then backs off to a small anteroom, leaving the guards next to me, before closing the door. They take up their position, looking away from me and back towards the main entrance, as the mechanical systems start whirring quietly into place.
“Everett?” she asks, flexing her hand in mine against the pressure I’m exerting. She steps around in front of me. “Are you okay?” Barely. “You’re shaking. Is this something to do with your father?” Yes.
I smile at her understanding of me, even if she doesn’t know it yet, and wait for the doors to fully open. The reveal comes slowly, until we’re finally met with the original vault doors fromthe early 1920s. Art Deco images almost melt into the artistry, heavily countered by the Romanesque columns alongside them.
“Everett, is that gold?” she asks.
