Page 102 of A Heart So Haunted
“—bastard,” he choked.
“You look green, Bertie.” Hadrian spoke as if the weather had turned fine.
“You deserved it,” Bertie gasped. He started to tremble on the floor. Cold, straggled bits of rage shone through his eyes. “All of it.”
Hadrian squatted down beside the butler and set his wine glass on the floor. Watched as foam erupted from between Bertie’s lips. My hand fluttered to my throat.
Hadrian’s tongue poked where his teeth should have been. “Sometimes good men do evil things,” Hadrian said, dry. “I wouldn’t say you were one of those good men, Bertie.”
The man’s neck purpled. “Pathetic… child.”
Hadrian’s head tilted, cheeks tightened. “That’s a shame. You believe I care what you think. Well, I have news for you.” Hadrian took the man’s collar, pulled him near, until they were nose to nose. “I wouldn’t have killed you if I did.”
He shoved Bertie to the floor.
“Burn in hell, old man,” he whispered. Then he got up. Brushed off. Straightened his jacket, tie, then suspenders.
He walked from the parlor.
This was the Hadrian that had gotten trapped. This was the man he’d been.
I followed Hadrian’s long strides. I took the steps two at a time to keep up. Past the second floor, up to the attic.
He shoved the door open with a firm push of his shoulder.
Shadows clung to the room. Not nightly shadows that came after the sun fell, but alive little tendrils. They caressed the floors, the chair legs, the desk in the middle of the room. I blinked, but nothing changed.
The air hung heavy with cigar smoke. I had just stepped through when Hadrian shut the door.
The man at the desk—Howie, if I remembered his name correctly—sat with a dip pen between his teeth. Reddened whites of his eyes, carefully tied hair. It fell past the chair back.
“Bertie sent for me.” Hadrian’s chin dipped, mouth parted. The whites under his eyes were visible. Dead eyes.
Howie didn’t look up.
The grandfather clock continued to tick.
“I’m busy,” Howie muttered to his pages. He gave his son a similar glare. “Or are you blind?”
“No dire negotiations you need to make while mingling? Or have all your important connections left?” Hadrian grunted. He dragged one hand, languid, over the back of a chair. He continued, until he stopped in front of a shelf. Perched atop it was a typewriter. Ran a fingertip over the K, S, R, and F keys, which had faded.
Howie’s jaw ticked. Just like Hadrian’s. The stiffness he held in himself, the haughty assurance in his movements—they were the same. Where Hadrian’s were not as confident, Howie’s insinuated assumption. As if everyone should know what he thought.
“A quick tongue has never gotten you anywhere, son,” Howie snarled. He set his pen down, then pushed back in his chair. His chin jutted up. “Actually, there was something I intended to discuss with you.” He sniffed. “There are … shipping containers missing.”
Hadrian continued his perusal of his father’s shelf. “I am no bookkeeper.”
Howie’s voice remained chilled. “You know where they went.”
“I do not.”
Howie’s neck blotched with color. He slammed both hands onto his desk, shot from his chair, and shouted, “You ruin me! Every chance you get, you take it. Where are they?”
Hadrian turned, shoulders loose, hips canted to one side.
Gray eyes ate gray. The face, the nose, the chin, all identical.
Hadrian’s hand smoothed the front of his jacket, then slipped inside, under his shirt. Howie tracked it.
