Devil's Bargain

“Why did you accept the second offer? The month?”

“The driver’s license, Melissa Chase.” She stops, reconsiders, changes track. “I don’t have great memories of that time.”

“Your time with the Boyd family.”

“Yes.”

“And you ran away.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want him to know where you are?” She knows who I mean by him.

She doesn’t reply right away but when she does, it’s not quite my question she answers.

“I don’t know what they know or don’t know. Growing up in foster care sucks, Hawk. I don’t remember anything about my birth parents. All I know is that I was told I had a bracelet with my name on it when I was found. And then I got lucky and got adopted by a wonderful couple, but after they died in a car crash, I was back in the system.”

I don’t say anything. Just let her talk.

“Everyone wants babies or toddlers. Not kids older than that and definitely not teenagers,” she pauses. “But then Senator Boyd…It was an election year and he’d just had a scandal. That’s all. He didn’t do it out of love for me or any remotely human feeling for a child.”

“Did he hurt you?”

It’s taking effort for her to keep her expression neutral, but I see through it. I see the little girl she’s trying to hide.

To protect.

In fact, I can’t get the image of that little girl out of my head.

But I need to be careful I don’t let her see it. Don’t let her know what I know.

“No, nothing like that,” she says, but her answer is too smooth. Too quick.

“Nothing like what?” I press.

Her gaze snaps to mine and I think she’s going over what she said. I think she’s trying to make sure she didn’t give anything away.

“When I turned seventeen, I left. That’s all,” she says, completely avoiding my question. “I was old enough to take care of myself and I did. I came to Las Vegas and I met Mrs. Adams who owned Wrinkles in Time and worked for her until she died. She left me the shop and I’m continuing her work. And her kids wish they could evict me and make real money on the building, but they weren’t able to contest the will. That’s about it in a nutshell.”

“And you donate about fifty percent of your profits to the homeless shelter a few blocks away. That’s the reason you have the low rent agreement Mrs. Adams’ greedy kids aren’t thrilled about.”

“How did you know?”

“I heard the woman at the shop the other day and was curious, so I looked into it.”

“Looked into it? Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“You’re not so forthcoming, Melissa.”

She looks around again, then cocks her head to the side. “You don’t have any photographs of family either, by the way,” she says.

I remember when she found the one in my book.

“Not in here,” she continues. “Not anywhere in the entire penthouse. In fact, this place, as nice as it is, anyone can move in. Apart from that tartan I saw the first night, there’s nothing personal in it at all.”

“My mother died when I was six. My father remarried and it didn’t work out for me to stay.” It comes out strange. Awkward.

“What do you mean?”

“I was a threat to her. To her son. My father is a wealthy man. Or he was,” I pause. “Greed makes devils out of people.”

“Was? Is he…”

I shake my head. “He’s alive and well. The fortune is what’s suffered. I haven’t spoken with my father in thirteen years.”

“Hawk, you…he’s your father. And he’s alive and you know him—”

“He made his choice. So did I.”

She studies me. “How did you get here? The casino and everything?” she asks, understanding I won’t be answering more questions about my father.

“I had cousins in Utah, but I only stayed with them a few weeks before leaving. Most people aren’t good, Melissa. Most people are sick bastards.”

Her eyes grow wide and fill up and I think how she knows this so well already. Better than me.

“How old were you?” she asks.

“Sixteen.”

“You were so young.”

“Older than you were when Boyd took you in.”

She doesn’t comment.

“I eventually made my way to Vegas. Figured it’d be easier to find work here. I worked for Murray Lanigan who owned the casino and the building. He left everything to me when he died, and I grew the business into what it is today.”

“Did you go to school?”

“Not a proper school, no, but I learned plenty.”

“Do you miss home?”

That question catches me off guard. “This is my home now.” I have to force the words.

And she sees right through me. “Is it?”

I stand. “I have something for you,” I say, remembering.

She follows me into the bedroom where I take the box out of my jacket pocket. I hand it to her.

“Here.”

She looks down at it, then at me. She doesn’t touch it. “What is it?”