One for the Money

There’s feminine laughter.

The screen goes black.

I turn around in time to see the remote sailing in my direction. I catch it before it hits me in the face. “Dad,” I say, my voice thick from the memories. From the happiness I witnessed. Would they have done it again if they knew how it turned out? It doesn’t matter. We don’t get choices like that. We don’t get do-overs.

“Get out,” he says, his expression dark. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Shit. It’s one of those evenings. Movie night slips away.

He storms me, and I block him so that he can’t touch Hemingway. He swings wildly and connects with the side of my jaw. Fuck. That might bruise. Which will be fun to explain to people. “Dad, calm down. Nothing is wrong. You’re safe. It’s me.”

“You.” Foaming spittle forms at the sides of his mouth. “You. As if I’m supposed to know who you are. Well, I don’t. You’re a stranger. Who the hell are you, and where is my family?”

“I’m your family,” I say, my voice gentle.

It doesn’t help. He fights harder, though I’m not even sure what he wants. To get past me? To hurt me? “Where’s my wife? Geneva? Geneva? Where’s my son? Where’s Finn?”

“I’m Finn, Dad. I’m right here.”

He glances back at the TV wildly. “No, that’s Finn. That’s my son.”

I glance to where Hemingway stands, stricken. “Go on. I’ll come in a little bit.”

“Where is she?” my dad says, sounding broken. “Is she dead? Just tell me. Please. Are my wife and son dead? Am I in an insane asylum? Is this hell?”

Despair clangs like a church bell. Is this hell?

Maybe it is. No one would choose to live like this.

“She’s not dead,” I manage to say. “Neither is dead. They’re both safe and healthy. The reason why you can’t see Geneva is because… because you’re separated.”

Shock. Hurt. Anger. “You’re lying to me. You’re a liar, and you’re holding me prisoner. I won’t stand for it. Geneva,” he shouts. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“Mr. Hughes,” Hemingway says, pushing past me. “I’m here for an interview. Your secretary said you could see me now. I appreciate the opportunity.”

My father looks bewildered for a moment.

He looks down, as if surprised to find his hands grabbing me. He releases me by small degrees, finally stepping back. “An interview? At my home? This is highly unusual.”

Hem gives his signature smile. “I’m an unusual candidate.”

“Yes,” my father mutters. “Well, if my secretary sent you over, it must be important.”

Together we move my father into a different room, the black screen a distant memory. “Thank you,” I mutter to Hemingway. “And sorry about movie night.”

“No problem. You know, I think it’s easier for me. This person is the only Daniel Hughes I’ve ever known. That guy behind the video camera? I never even met him.” He glances back at me. “You better put some ice on that while I talk about my five-year plan. If it makes you too ugly, Eva Morelli won’t want to look at you.”

Chapter Twenty

Eva

The Hughes estate can fit both the Morelli and Constantine estates.

That’s in line with how much money and power they have as well. The drive doesn’t even go up to the front door. Instead I enter a circular drive that opens up to a heavily landscaped courtyard. Gazebos and old-fashioned lampposts lead the way to a grand mansion. Two curved stone staircases on either side lead up to a space with marble floors encircled by Corinthian columns.

Above the ceiling is more railings, where people can look down from parties.

A chandelier hangs in the center, alight at all hours.

It was a spontaneous decision to come here. I stand outside a set of massive double doors that are twice as tall as me. It takes a lot to intimidate a Morelli, but this has done it. It’s like a palace. When Finn brought me here before, we came in the back way. A family entrance.

The front is designed to emphasize their position to visitors.

Why did I come here? This is Finn’s home. This is where he takes care of his father. Where his brother is staying after getting expelled.

I’m an intruder.

If I had any doubts about whether Finn wants something longer lasting with me, a true relationship, they were dashed when I saw how he reacted to the missing condom. It was more than concern. It was a deep, agitated regret. He doesn’t see a future with me.

Our engagement isn’t real. I don’t belong here.

I’m turning to leave when the door opens. A man stands there. I recognize his clothes and his bearing, even if we’ve never met before.

“Miss Morelli,” he says in a solicitous voice that contains a faint English accent. “Won’t you come in?”

He probably saw me on the Nest cam or something. No doubt there’s security and cameras all over the grounds. Heavily encrypted, of course. Very secure.