Father could, but he didn’t. He’d saved enough during those years of working seven days a week and bought a house from a foreclosure auction at the right time, and sold it after prices had skyrocketed a year later. From there, he bought and sold real estate and earned a fortune.
I’d left my car at home last night, as it had a flat and the spare tire didn’t have any air in it. So I caught a bus to my stepfather’s neighborhood and got off at the closest stop to the house.
People in Father’s neighborhood didn’t use public transportation—not the homeowners. The domestic staff that kept the mansion running stood in all weather—rain, cold, or blazing heat—waiting for a bus that creaked and groaned as it picked up and discharged passengers. They reminded me of ants, scurrying to and from the large buildings that swallowed them, and spat them out at the end of each day.
It was a ten-minute walk to the house, and when I reached the wrought-iron gate with Sebastian and Father’s initials entwined in gold, I stood with my hands in my pockets, studying the gaudy house on the other side.
For a home with such huge grounds, there was little greenery, just gravel and cement. Sebastian’s doing. I was convinced he hated the outdoors, maybe because Dad was or had been an enthusiastic gardener. It was as though he cut anything out of Father’s life that reminded him of us, but Father had insisted I was still part of his life.
Sadly, I didn’t enjoy my weekends at the house, even though Sebastian made himself scarce. I didn’t belong in that house with the gold furnishing, fake regency furniture, velvet drapes, and portraits of Father’s new husband on every wall.
Sebastian might’ve been looking at me standing here. He had the app and often refused to let people through if he was annoyed with them. For sure, he’d changed the code since he’d been widowed, because I’d memorized it, and he was aware. Some of the staff had discovered he’d fired them when their code was invalid.
I pressed the buzzer, girding myself for his voice that was a cross between screeching tires and an out-of-tune piano. There was a pause, and I stared at the camera, giving it the finger, but behind my back so Sebastian wouldn’t see.
But it wasn’t my stepfather’s voice that trilled through the intercom.
“Mr. Davidson’s residence.”
“Mylo, it’s Heston. I’m here to speak to my… to Sebastian.” I paused, in case my stepfather was beside him, running a finger over his throat, indicating Mylo should get rid of me. “It’s urgent.”
“Mr. Davidson isn’t here.”
I gripped the bars and squinted, trying to see if the yellow sports car was in the driveway.
“It’s especially important I speak with him, Mylo.” I gulped and leaned on the gate, the cool metal sending shivers through me. “It’s a matter of life and death—my dad’s life.”
“Heston, I have strict instructions never to let you in.”
White-knuckling the bars, I took a deep breath. Losing my temper with Mylo wouldn’t get me an audience with His Freaking Majesty.
“Please.” I was no longer pretending to hold it together. “My dad’s really sick.” The last word was barely a whisper as fear gripped my throat, trying to choke me.
“You’ve forgotten what day it is, Heston.”
I blinked away tears, frustrated Mylo wasn’t responding to my plea for help. “What?”
“It’s Friday, and what happens on Friday?”
Friday? What was he babbling about? Gritting my teeth, I spat out, “I don’t freaking know. Just tell me.”
He sighed. The distorted gurgle through the intercom sounded as though he was clearing his throat. Sebastian was our last chance, and it felt as if the whole world was against us. And Mylo wasn’t helping. I wanted to scream but held it together—just.
But as I pressed my face on the metal bars, probably leaving an indentation on my cheeks, a memory flickered and then formed in my mind. Friday, Sebastian went to his country club for lunch. Every Friday.
Not that knowing where he was helped me. The house was miles from the club, which was on the outskirts of the city, and I didn’t have a car.
“Thanks. Sorry I almost lost it.” Mylo didn’t deserve my anger when I should have directed my fury at my stepfather.
“I’m sorry about your father.”
Was he referring to Dad’s health or Father’s death? My father had passed a while ago, but I hadn’t seen Mylo since the funeral. I thanked him and turned away from the gate. But as I walked toward the bus stop, calculating if I could return here tomorrow, a car slowed. Like most of the vehicles in the neighborhood, it cost more than my college tuition.
A darkened back passenger window lowered, and a hand waved at me.
“Heston.”
“Mrs. Simmons.”
