Hideaway (Devil's Night 2)

She’d only mentioned him a few times, not that she’d ever met him. He had just been born when my mom got pregnant with me, but we’d heard enough over time. He’s supposed to be kind of trouble.

She takes my hand again and leads me to the front door where a servant is holding it open, greeting guests as they enter.

A woman in a sparkly dress looks down at me, narrowing her eyes and taking in my clothes. I quickly look away.

People enter the house, and we follow, but the man at the door puts his hand on my mother’s shoulder. “Excuse me. Who are you?”

“I need to see Gabriel.”

The man, who’s wearing a white waistcoat, moves in front of her, blocking her way.

I peek around him, seeing all the fancy people in suits and dresses walking through a door to the back of the house.

“Mr. Torrance is entertaining guests right now,” he tells her.

My mother puts her arm around me, replying flatly, “This is his kid, and if I don’t see him now, I’m going to run through your quaint little village here in Thunder Bay and shout it to the world.”

The man purses his lips, and I notice a few people around us turn to look. I cringe on the inside. Would Gabriel even care if she did that?

The servant nods to the man standing next to the wall, and he walks over. My heart races, watching him pat my mother down.

But then the burly guard finishes with her and steps over to me, running his hands down my arms. I jerk, and my mother pulls me away.

“Keep your hands off her,” she demands.

I shake and move into her, hiding as much as possible.

“Follow me,” the servant who’d opened the door says. He leads my mother and me through the house, and I look around, noticing a library, a den, and some kind of sitting room. Everything is dark, and nearly everything is made of wood: the stairs, the furniture, some of the walls…. We pass by the staircase, and my eye catches a figure standing at the top. I look up.

A boy stands there, leaning on the wall, with his arms crossed over his chest. He stares at us, his eyes following me as I pass by. He has dark hair like mine, but his eyes are darker, narrow and calm. But something in his look makes me shrink. Is that him?

“Wait here,” the man says.

My mother and I stop outside a door, while the older man rounds a corner.

My mom takes my hand and holds it with both hands. She did the same thing a couple years ago when CPS came to our house and also on the rare occasion I had a pushy teacher who went the extra mile to convince her to come to parent-teacher conferences. She’s nervous.

I hear hard footsteps hit the floor. My heart starts beating in my throat, and I stop breathing for a moment.

A shadow falls on the ground, and I look up, seeing a tall, well-dressed man charge around the corner.

Graying black hair, beautiful black suit and shirt, shiny shoes…I stare up at him wide-eyed, my breath caught in my throat at his strong scent, a mixture of cologne and tobacco.

He gets in my mom’s face, his voice sounding so mean that my hands start to shake.

“You know what’s more tragic than a poor junkie whore?” he bites out at her. “A dead, poor junkie whore.”

And then he looks down at me. “Sit,” he orders. “Now.”

I take a shallow breath—it’s all I can force in—and drop to the bench, fidgeting with my hands. He pushes my mother through the door, and I see a desk and some books before he closes it.

Oh, God. What the hell? He’s so mean. Why? I know my mom can be trouble, and she’s embarrassing, even to me sometimes, but I haven’t done anything.

I blink away the tears that spring up all of a sudden. I don’t want to be here. These people are awful. My mom said my dad owns a media company and sits on the boards of others—whatever that means—but the

re’s also other things he does. She had worked for him, but she wouldn’t tell me what she did.

I just want to leave. I don’t want anything to do with him, and I don’t want to know anything more.