“You think he’s really dying?” Archie gives me a worried glance in the rearview mirror.
I’m tempted to soften the blow for him, but I’ve got too much pent-up anger toward Malcolm to be gentle about anything involving him. Even his potential death. “According to Sybil’s statistics, there’s at least an eighty-five percent chance, Arch.”
The car goes quiet. The only sounds come from the stereo that’s quietly playing Archie’sGet Pumpedplaylist. I’m very familiar with it. We used to blast it together before surf comps.
“Maybe we should plan on being there more than an hour,” he says after a minute or two.
“Maybe we should see why he wants us there, first,” I counter a bit too firmly.
He nods.
“You set the limit, Arch. We’ve gotta stick to it. And if things don’t go well, we give ourselves permission now to leave before that hour’s up,” I add.
Archie nods again, but there’s no conviction in his agreement. Piper shoots me a stealthy look from the mirror in hervisor. She’s as worried as I am about Archie caving and getting sucked right back into Malcolm’s black hole.
Too soon, we pull up to the gated driveway of the Beverly Hills House. Piper tenses. This was her home when her mum was married to Malcolm. Archie and I have only been here once or twice. We never really spent time together as a family when Piper was our stepsister.
Archie announces our arrival through the speaker, and the black, wrought iron gate opens with a slow, ominous squeal. The driveway isn’t long enough, so within seconds we’re parked in front of the stucco house that could be dropped in the rolling hills of Tuscany, and no one would know it hadn’t been there for five hundred years.
I check my watch. “We’re early.”
“Not on purpose,” Archie sighs.
The three of us stare at the entry way where Sybil waits for us in front of the ten-foot arched double doors. Sensible tan pants, matching suit jacket—slightly too big—black shoes; looking like she’s auditioning for a reality TV make-over show. If her clothes were any more boring, she’d fade into the house’s beige stucco.
“Why do I have the urge to rescue her from her wardrobe?” Piper mutters.
I snort. “Right? What’s wrong with us?”
We smile at each other, and getting out of the car suddenly seems doable.
The three of us walk together up the sweeping porch steps towards Sybil. When we arrive, she directs all of her attention and her hello toward Piper.
I reckon she doesn’t feel obligated to say hello to Archie and me again today after she already did over the phone. Sybil’s got a strict quota for friendly greetings. She’s met hers for the day.
“Hello, Sybil.” Piper returns Sybil’s monotone greeting in the same voice, then Sybil leads us inside.
This house is bigger than the one Arch and I grew up in, in Brisbane, before Mum and Dad’s divorce. Bigger than the one Mum lives in now that she bought with the settlement she got in the divorce. Being here brings back all the old feelings of bitterness toward Piper’s mum, Cynthia, who’s partly to blame for Mum and Dad’s marriage breaking up.
If I’m honest, though, Dad’s mostly at fault for that. Cynthia ended up being another pawn sacrificed in his game.
Piper’s gaze sweeps across the foyer walls and ceiling before she walks to a large oval mirror hanging above a table. She traces her fingers over the bottom of the gilded frame. “I helped Mom pick this out,” she says. “I felt so important when she wanted it hung right here.”
Her wistful words remind me that Archie and I aren’t the only collateral damage left in the wake of Malcolm’s long list of betrayals.
“I need to collect your mobiles,” Sybil says, all business. Polite, but efficient. “For privacy.” She holds out her hands. There’s not a question in her request, just an order—a reminder of Malcolm’s need for control.
Reluctantly, I hand mine over along with Piper and Archie. Then we follow Sybil down a hallway.
“His office is this way,” Piper whispers to us, and a familiar prick of jealousy follows.
For the decade Cynthia and Malcolm were married, Piper was closer to Malcolm than I ever had been. He was more of a father to her than to me. I bet she has more memories of one-on-one time with him than I do. Malcolm’s time was always limited, and Archie got more of Malcolm’s attention than I did when we were growing up.
At the end of the hallway, Sybil opens the large doubledoors and ushers us into Malcolm’s office. Across the room from us, someone sits behind a large desk, and I stop short when I realize it’s Malcolm.
When I picture my dad, I picture him behind a desk just like this one. Dark wood; large and imposing with sharp lines and angles. This is the image of him that’s most familiar. I have at least a hundred memories all bundled together of moments just like this, meeting with Dad in one of his many offices scattered across dozens of homes and office buildings.
This is the first time, though, that he’s ever looked small, no matter how big the desk.
