Page 126 of Dying to Meet You
Excuse me, sir?
He turns around, and it’s Tim. His face is bloody and terrifying. And he’s holding what looks like a swaddled baby. But it isn’t moving.
He takes a staggering step toward me, and I wake in a sweaty panic.
I glance at the clock. Seven, and the house is quiet. I tiptoe downstairs and find Harrison seated in the kitchen, his chair sandwiched between the cat and dog.
“Natalie’s still asleep?” he asks, looking up. “I don’t think her friend left last night.”
“You probably won’t see them until noon.” I find a coffee mug and pour myself a cup. “School’s over. They’re supposed to be looking for jobs.”
“Not sure that’s going well,” he says. “What happens if she can’t find one?”
“She’dbetterfind one. It’s that or volunteer work. This is a hill I’m willing to die on.”
He looks amused. “Want an egg? I could whip something up.”
“No time,” I lie.
But I wish I never had to go back to the mansion.
***
With no meetings scheduled, I spend the morning at my desk. Today’s task is a redesign for the third-floor railing. Replacing a large section of the banister—and all the balusters on the third floor—won’t be cheap,but if I attempt a revamp of the existing pieces, the smooth line of the staircase will be ruined.
It’s difficult to care and impossible to concentrate. Beatrice is on a call, chattering away with someone about furniture delivery times. Meanwhile, Hank is blowing up my phone with texts.
Hank: Hey, got a minute? I want to apologize for last night.
I don’t respond, because I’m not in the mood for that phone call. Fifteen minutes later he tries again.
Hank: Rowan? Can I call you? I’m really sorry.
Am I supposed to be grateful that he’s sorry? Wincott men seem prone to taking what they want without asking. The more I know about them, the more Poseidon seems like a worthy choice for the family mascot.
Now he wants to apologize, because I’m his architect and we have to maintain a professional relationship.
But the girls who once lived in this house weren’t so lucky.
I ignore Hank’s second message, too, but his next gambit is a little more straightforward.
Hank: Can we reschedule the budget meeting for tomorrow at one? I’ll come to your office, or we can meet wherever makes you most comfortable. My deepest apologies for my behavior last night.
A response is necessary, because that damn meeting is essential to the next phase of my work.
Rowan: Don’t worry about last night. No harm done. One p.m. works.
I hesitate on the location question. I don’t really want to be alone with Hank. But if he’s sober in the middle of the day, then I should havenothing to worry about, right? And I don’t want to discuss a multimillion-dollar budget at the coffee shop.
Rowan: My office is fine. See you then.
That done, I put my head in my hands and let out a nearly silent groan. Stupid Hank. His drunken kiss isn’t even in the top five of my biggest issues right now. I keep picturing Laura Peebles clutching her mug of tea, telling me that story of how Marcus Wincott handcuffed a girl to a chair.
I’m not stupid, you know. They brought me a dead baby. He was so cold.
That happened right here in this building. I believe her, but I don’t think Detective Riley was convinced. “That’s a wild story,” Riley said after listening to the recording. “Is there a morgue in the mansion?”
I had to tell her no.
