I start by dusting everything, then I use a rag to wipe the surfaces of his bookshelves, end tables, and desk. I sit down in the large wingback chair to organize the few documents scattered over the desk into one pile, and as I’m setting them aside, I notice that the top desk drawer is hanging about an inch open.
I’m about to shut it, but something stops me. This drawer is usually locked, which never struck me as weird or anything. It’s a wealthy man’s desk in his private office. But now that I’ve got a chance to peek inside, I can’t quite talk myself out of it.
My gaze flicks up to the doorway, but I haven’t seen or heard any of the Blacks moving around the house all day. My heart beats a little faster in my chest as I tug the shallow drawer open wider, poking at the contents like I’m afraid they’ll bite.
There are several receipts, some letters that’ve been opened and then stuffed back into the envelopes, and a large manilla envelope with a few pieces of paper sticking out.
So, pretty much what you’d expect to find in a desk. Boring.
I’m about to slide the drawer shut when a word on one of the pieces of paper in the big envelope catches my eye.
Paternity.
My hand freezes as I cock my head. Is that a paternity test?
I try to slide it out a little farther with my finger, almost afraid to touch it at all, as if the first thing Mr. Black will do when he comes back is dust for fingerprints. It takes a couple swipes, but I manage to drag the paper a little higher so more of it is visible.
It is. It’s a lab result for a paternity test, but—
The front door slams, and I jump so high my knees bang against the underside of the desk.
“Fuck!” I hiss as pain explodes in my kneecaps.
My hands shake with urgency as I quickly shove the paper back into the envelope, trying to get it into the exact position it was in when I found it.
I close the drawer, leaving just an inch of space as before, and practically throw myself out of the chair as footsteps come down the hall toward me. Picking up my rag, I wipe down a bookshelf I already cleaned, trying to get my breath under control as Samuel Black steps into the room.
“Ah, Harlow. I’m looking for your mother, do you know where I might find her?”
“Um, she was in the kitchen last I saw her.” I glance over my shoulder, positive my guilt is written all over my face. But my voice sounds pretty normal, and Mr. Black doesn’t bat an eye.
“Good. Good. I just wanted to go over a few things with her for tonight.”
His gaze sweeps the room, and his eyelids flicker just slightly when he notices the desk drawer sitting open a crack. I keep my focus on the bookshelf, pretending not to notice or care as he walks over and closes it, engaging the lock.
He doesn’t know I looked. He can’t know, or he wouldn’t have just closed it so casually. Maybe he doesn’t even think I noticed.
“It looks good in here.” He gives me a wide, genuine smile, and I can’t find any suspicion in his eyes. “Keep up the good work.”
When he strides out to go find Mom, I nearly collapse against the sofa in relief. My hands are shaking, and I can’t quite suck in a full breath. Jesus, that was fucking stupid. I didn’t even close the door before I started poking around.
As the pounding of my heart starts to ease, an image of the document in the envelope flashes in my mind. I didn’t get a great look at it, but it was definitely a paternity test. I don’t even know for sure who it was testing, and I have no idea if it was positive or negative. I assume Mr. Black was the subject of the test, but that begs the question: is Lincoln not his real son?
They look a lot alike—same strong bone structure and nearly black hair—but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people look similar, especially if you assume they’re related and look for features they have in common.
I grab my cleaning supplies and make a hasty exit, heading for the library next.
Something strange is definitely going on in this house. But even as curiosity pricks at me, a warning alarm in my head tells me that some secrets are better left buried.
Mom may not be great at organizing aspects of her personal life, but she’s an amazing party planner. I continue cleaning while she meets with the cook, the caterers and hired servers, and the groundske
eping staff to make sure everyone is completely prepared for tonight.
It’s kind of cool to see her like this, actually. In Big Boss Mode. I know housekeeping was never her ambition, but I could see all the skills she’s honing here translating into a job she really loves somewhere down the line.
Hopefully sooner rather than later.
We’ve been at the Black house for less than six weeks, and I’m already itching to get out.