Debt

Not bad.

Not that it mattered. I didn't want to look beautiful; I wanted to look put together and no-nonsense. I wanted to come off as trustworthy and serious next to my father's carelessness.

"You ready, Prue?" my father asked, coming up behind me and linking his arm through mine.

Not in the least. "Absolutely," I said with a smile that hurt.

I shrugged my purse higher up on my shoulder and let my father lead me away, going confidently up the steps to the front door and I wondered how many times he had visited. Maybe if he had formed some kind of relationship with Byron St. James this meeting would go more smoothly.

There was a man standing outside the front door in a suit, waiting for us, watching us as we approached. Once up the stairs, he gave my father a curt nod and he turned from us to open the door.

"Nice day today," my father remarked, attempting to lighten the heavy mood all around us as we walked into the foyer. And it was a foyer, like only a genuine mansion could have. Inside was all the same white stucco as the outside of the house, the walls all but bare, everything inside feeling cool and sterile despite the warm earthtone floors and the gentle sunlight streaming through the many open windows. It felt... cold.

I actually felt myself shiver slightly.

We were led down a hall where I spotted a formal living room with two white couches facing each other with a coffee table between and an almost understated fireplace to the side. There was a dining room with a dark wood table big enough to seat twenty. I even chanced a look at a kitchen that made me want to cry with its seemingly endless butcher block counter tops, eight burner stove, two sets of double ovens, and a sub-zero glass-front refrigerator. That was not to mention the gorgeous red and sand colored back splash, the state of the art small appliances, and the fact that there was a giant picture window to look out of while you stood at the sink.

Cooking, as with cleaning, and paying the bills when there was money to do so, and doing laundry, was one of the many day-to-day tasks that was relegated to me at a very young age. Well, that wasn't exactly right. My father never told or even asked me to do those things, but because he never seemed inclined to do so and I needed to eat, be able to walk around our house, have lights, and have clean clothes to wear to school, well, I had to do them myself. Unlike laundry, bill-paying, and cleaning, I really took to cooking. Well, not cooking. Baking. I could make a palatable meal, but I could make a triple-chocolate cake that could make a grown man cry.

So those two double ovens and the giant mixer, yeah, my heart was doing a mini flutter at the idea.

We were led to the final door down the hall near two French doors that led out onto a sprawling back deck that looked over the grounds which boasted a giant in-ground pool, cabanas, a basketball court, a hot tub, and what seemed to be a running track.

The man who had been walking us knocked twice on the door but said nothing.

"Send them in," came the clipped bark from behind the massive dark wood door and my father's grip tightened on my arm, giving me the first indication of his genuine fear. I slanted my head to him as the door opened before us and all I could see in his face was trepidation.

Great. That was just wonderful. Why hadn't he told me there was a reason to genuinely be afraid of this guy? Maybe I wouldn't have pushed so hard. Maybe I would have just... followed him to Mexico and prayed for the best. Maybe...

"Don't have all day, Mack," the voice barked again. It was a deep, smooth voice, firm and commanding, sounding like it was underlined in steel and was anything in the world except bending. I jumped, my head jerking forward again where my father was looking.

And there was Byron St. James.

See, well, I had kind of been expecting a middle aged man, maybe a little rotund, with graying hair and a ruddy complexion. When you thought wealth, that was generally the image that flew to mind. What you didn't imagine was a man in his mid to late thirties with what looked like not an inch of fat to pinch underneath his black slacks and matching dress shirt. He was tall and wide with black hair, a sharp jaw, and dark eyes. Cold. Just like his house, he seemed cold. I actually suppressed a shiver as my father pulled me forward, tightening his grip on me as if sensing my uncharacteristic urge to flee.