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Prologue
The Summer Before Senior Year
Dorian
Old fucker: Feel free to let yourself in, son. I’ll be in the parlor.
My thumb closed out the text, countless others above it.
They’d been what led me here today.
I’d driven over two hours to see this fucker, tell this fucker what was what. I didn’t need his old ass anymore.
Today was the day I told him.
I’d admit, the ruse had to go on longer than I had anticipated. I couldn’t come right out with asking the old man what I needed from him. I had to lean into things a bit and pretend like I wanted to get to know him.
I got out of my car, parked in front of a manor the size of a city block. The old fucker had done well in his reclusion. He was an outcast from our town. At least, when it came to me and mine. He wasn’t wanted, and after he got out of prison, he’d made a new home for himself far away from my family and me.
Dad had kept watch on him the first few years he’d been out, from what I understood. He hadn’t wanted the old man to have anything to do with us, with me. Apparently, the old fart upstate didn’t pose much of a threat because eventually I no longer heard whispers of Dad utilizing his monitoring team upstate. He used to often talk about the details with my mother, but that stopped.
“He’s dead to me. Dead to this family,” I’d heard my father say. He’d sighed. “Might as well make it official. I won’t grant any more resources to him.”
But Dad did still keep tabs, and I knew that because, on occasion, he did have his PI come in with a report for him. Dad had many contacts, things he used for various reasons. He ran many successful businesses and worked with many people. With the high-stakes clientele he worked with, he often had to find out if those people were on the up-and-up.
His PI, Marshall, usually came through around once a year, and I knew the guy, knew what he did. Dad claimed he was a friend, but I had my best friend, Thatcher, look the guy up one day. Marshall was my dad’s way of dealing with the fact that his fucked-up kin was currently out in the real world. It was Dad’s way of functioning.
What I’d been doing recently was mine.
Since Charlie had died, I’d needed help. I hadn’t wanted to stress my father out or my mother. Coming to see this old fuck weekly all summer had been my way to get what I needed. He’d helped me find the woman responsible for Charlie’s death, and according to Thatcher, she was returning to her position as headmaster of my school this upcoming term.
Things were finally coming full circle, and I didn’t need to go on with the ruse. I didn’t have to take the old man’s phone calls or worry about his texts being seen by my mother or father. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I was ending this with my grandfather today.
And it’d be oh so sweet.
I slammed the car door behind me, my grandfather’s manservant Samuel meeting me out on the cobblestone walkway. He offered to take my keys from me and drive my car around to my grandfather’s garages.
I told him no need.
I wouldn’t be long and met my grandfather in his parlor. He had a fine mansion, opulent with all the bells and whistles. He had more rooms in it than his old-ass knees could even take him into. Same with the stairs. I was quite sure he hadn’t seen a quarter of this house that looked like something out of some old-ass European flick.
My feet creaked on the polished hardwood, my grandfather sitting in front of a chess set. We had a routine during these visits, and I forced down the bile in my throat every time. I had to sip tea with him like some uppity-ass prick, moving chess pieces around with him while he spoke to me about my dad, old stories he had about my father in his youth. I listened to this while trying not to choke on the fucker’s cigar smoke. He’d also offered me a puff on the thing more than once.
He’d offered me alcohol too, like a good and responsible grandfather. He claimed norms imposed on regular society were for the normal.
We weren’t normal.
We were elite. We were above, and this was something he never failed to remind me. He never asked about current details regarding my father or mother. I didn’t think he cared.
He was too busy working on me.
His eyes lifted from his chess set, our tea already out and ready. He also had that cigar smoking in his fingers. He waved a hand. “Take a seat, son.”
I wouldn’t, no longer fighting the sneer at being referred to by a title only my father was able to use. I wasn’t his son, and I may be blood-related to this man, but as far as I was concerned that didn’t mean much.
Grandfather noticed me standing there, the man aged but not as old-looking as what I’d hoped. He was in his seventies, but took very good care of himself. He appeared at least a full decade younger, his graying blond more pepper than salt. He appeared distinguished in his smoking jacket and was probably the only old man I’d ever seen that might actually pack a punch if he ever decided to throw down. My grandfather was a large man, and I knew he had used those fists in the past. He’d done so on my father. I’d heard the stories.
I stayed by the door, clenching my own fists, and I’d give it to my grandfather. He pretended not to notice. Instead, he angled his gaze down to the chessboard.
