Page 22 of Backlash

“What time?”

“Around eight.” He runs his eyes up and down me. “That gives you time to take a shower.”

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“You stink, Ford.” He kicks a wadded t-shirt near his feet to mine. “And find something clean to wear.”

Tomorrow, I need to deal with Francie’s visit. I’ll get my shit together then. Tonight? I might as well escape.

Adair

Present Day

So maybe I’m obsessing. Chances are, the locked drawer has a few expired credit cards, maybe an old checkbook, and, if I’m lucky, a bottle of whiskey stashed in it — probably nothing more. But that’s the thing about growing up in a house built from smoke and mirrors: I’m always looking for the solution to the mystery, always trying to understand why.

Why my mother married my father? Why she stayed with a man that cheated and lied? Why he had to rule over all of us with an iron fist? Why? Why? Why? I’m always full of more questions, and there are never answers in sight. If there’s even a possibility that the answer to one of those questions is in that locked drawer, then I have to find it.

It helps that it’s a distraction from Sterling, too, because it turns out that I’m not very good at wallowing. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the lingering, raw sensation of tears in my throat. I can’t stand the self-recrimination. I can’t stand not knowing which one of us to be more angry at: him or me. I just want to feel anything else, and right now, obsessive curiosity is winning out. Tying the robe tighter, I abandon my room service and grab my keycard. Stepping into the hall, I walk right into a man heading the opposite direction.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Hey, are…” He trails off as I continue past him with nothing more than the apology. I’m heading in the direction of the elevator before I get caught chatting with my new neighbor. I’m not looking to make friends at the Eaton. I step inside the elevator in time to see his back disappearing into a suite on the opposite side of the corridor.

Geoff isn’t at the concierge desk, so I grab a passing bellboy.

“Excuse me,” I stop him. “Is there any way I can get a screwdriver?”

“Is something broken?” he asks in confusion. I’m guessing your average hotel guest doesn’t ask for a screwdriver.

“I’m in suite six-fourteen, and my father left a drawer locked. He passed away. I’m just trying to sort through his things.”

Maybe it’s too much truth, because he seems to shrink an inch, like he wants to retreat to a safe hiding place. “I’m not certain I should” —

“Is there a problem, Anthony?” Mr. Randolph, the manager, steps in, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. His eyes widen when he glances my direction. “Miss MacLaine. I didn’t know you were staying with us. Anthony, get whatever the lady asked for.”

“But she asked for” —

“Whatever she asked for,” he hisses through his teeth before plastering on a slippery smile and turning back to me. “I’m Mr. Randolph, you may call me”—

“I remember you, Mr. Randolph,” I cut him off before things get too friendly. You don’t forget a man who glued his face to your family’s ass at every opportunity. Randolph will find out I’m staying here, so I might as well get this over with. It will be good practice for telling people that my address is changing. “I’m moving into my family’s apartment. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all!” He looks genuinely pleased at this announcement. Given how his eyes skim down my body, I’m not sure that’s something I should be happy about. “That’s delightful news. We’ll be pleased to have you, and I will be certain the staff understands who you are.”

I guess I won’t have any trouble getting a screwdriver in the future.

“What do you require?” He asks. “I’d be happy to ensure it arrives swiftly.”

There’s no way I’m using the word screw in front of Mr. Wandering Eyes. “There’s a drawer in my father’s desk. He left it locked and I’m trying to sort through his things before I move in.”

“We can call a locksmith,” he suggests.

“I prefer to do it myself.” I shake my head. Forget prefer. I need to do this now. I need answers. I need closure. It feels as though I’ve been standing still for the last five years, and I can’t do it a second longer. I need to free myself from the past, whether that means cutting ties with my brother, walking away from Sterling, or breaking open a stupid locked drawer.

Anthony returns with a Philip’s head screwdriver and hands it to me reluctantly. His eyes dart to his boss.

“A flathead would be better. I don’t want to damage the wood.” I pass it back to him and smile apologetically. Anthony forces one in return and leaves to find the correct tool.

“Perhaps Anthony can help you?” Mr. Randolph suggests. “I would hate for—”