One for the Money

He pulls his car past the front drive into a smaller, private area that leads into the back of the house. He turns the engine off with a jerk of his hand, leaving the keys in the ignition. I follow. He doesn’t try to stop me. We rush toward the house.

“You shouldn’t—” He cuts himself off.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him, squeezing his hand gently. He lifts his hand and looks at where it’s linked in mine, as if surprised to find himself touching me.

Finn is worried. And there’s a frantic energy coming from the house.

I let calm settle over me.

This is what I do for my family. It isn’t always about running out of champagne in the middle of a party. Or even a possibly pregnant sister. No, sometimes it’s been worse. There are dark things in my family’s past. Violence. Pain. I helped my mother clean up broken glass from my father’s rages. I found my brother at the darkest moment of both of our lives. The metallic taste of adrenaline floods my tongue. It’s a comforting taste. A familiar taste. I learned early how to handle a scary situation. It’s what I do best.

We step into a foyer that’s beautiful but smaller, as if this is a separate residence than the main house. I don’t have time to take in the spare, almost medical look of the space. My attention is captured by an older man in blue and white striped pajamas, barefoot, his brown hair standing up at the ends, a look of pure panic on his face.

“Stop,” he yells. “Let me go. I’m calling the police.”

“Dad,” Finn says, approaching him, his voice low but commanding.

Dad. The family resemblance wasn’t immediately clear. His father’s face is contorted in fury and fear, his hair a dark bronze instead of Finn’s brown, his stature frail next to his son’s vitality. Though now that I know I can see it in his eyes. His are more filmy, but they have the same shape as Finn’s. The same shape as the eyes I looked into under the moonlight.

“They’re holding me hostage,” he says, his voice strained and vaguely hoarse.

“Okay,” Finn says, sounding not particularly shocked. The resigned note makes it sound like he’s heard this complaint before. “But shouldn’t you be in bed right now?”

“I’m not tired,” he says, sounding like a toddler who’s missed his nap. “I want to go to work. Why can’t I go to work? Bellows needs me. He claims he watches the markets, but he needs nudging. And that bastard Van Kempt needs to be watched. An eagle eye for property, but the mind of a gambler.”

Awareness rushes over me like cold rain.

I didn’t know what to make of Finn’s father’s claim that he was being held hostage. Was he ill? Was it temporary? He didn’t mean it literally, did he? Two harried women in blue scrubs stand back, present but allowing Finn to handle the situation.

It’s clear this has played out in the Hughes home before.

Many times, probably.

I might still wonder, except I recognize the name Van Kempt. The man was a real estate tycoon before his untimely death this summer. He had worked his way up through the ranks at Hughes Industries before branching out on his own. I know this because where powerful men work is the topic of every ball and gala and masquerade that I attend.

He had his own company, Van Kempt Industries, for years.

And a well-known feud with the powerful Hughes family, to his detriment.

Why does Finn’s father think Van Kempt will be at the office?

He wouldn’t. Not unless he was still living in the past.

“I don’t like the food,” he says, a little calmer now. “They’re always trying to feed me, and I don’t want it. I want to go out. Sushi. Curry. Give me something with flavor.”

“I’ll order you some California rolls. Tomorrow.”

“I want it now.”

“Most places are closed. It’s the middle of the night.”

“No, it’s not.” Confusion passes over the older man’s face. “The day just started.”

Finn’s mouth is a grim line. His voice is patient. “It’s nighttime, Dad. You just woke up from a bad dream. We’ve gotta get you back in bed.”

“I’m not going,” he says, his chin in a stubborn lift. I recognize that movement, too. It’s the same confidence that Finn displays when I challenge him. Though Finn usually backs it up with charm. His father looks like he’s digging his heels in.

“Dad.” Finn doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t seem annoyed.

No, he seems weary. The man who escorted me to an underground boxing match was full of life. This version of Finn looks like he’s been tired for centuries.

“Mr. Hughes,” I say in a quiet voice, stepping forward.

I don’t know whether Finn will want me to say anything. Maybe he’d prefer I make myself scarce or pretend I wasn’t seeing this, but it’s not in my DNA. I have to try and help if I can. I don’t know anything about the elder Hughes’s condition, but I know something about defusing a tense situation.