Page 55 of Don't Tell

Cade

Garage. Five minutes. Bring your sketchbook.

I check my phone and see two missed calls already this morning from Beau and Henry. My stepfather has not called me directly in the past few months. Vivienne has been making the calls, and Vivienne has, by the silence of two days now, given up.

She has not given up technically.

She has handed me to Henry.

I dial the hotel's general manager from the elevator. He picks up on the second ring.

"Mr. Nightingale."

"Jerry."

"Sir."

"I have sensitive footage on the penthouse floor. Yesterday from 9:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., I would like it deleted."

"Mr. Nightingale — "

"No review. No backup. Delete. The Cross Foundation will be making a sizable contribution to your renovation fund this quarter."

"How sizable?"

"Sizable."

"It will be handled within the hour."

"Confirm when done."

"Yes, sir."

I end the call.

I dial Tomas before the elevator hits the parking level.

"Tomas, what do you have for me about the Cresswell? Are they willing to sell?"

"Well, yes, they’re willing. We’d still need to talk to a few more of the family members, but we have a foot in. I have a meeting with them today, so I’m hoping to finalize the agreement. They’re quite sentimental about this."

"Make the sentimental ones an offer they can be sentimental about somewhere else. I need this done today. Push if you have to. Use my tactics. Get the offer on the table today. I want the deal moving by the end of the week."

"Of course, Mr. Nightingale.”

I end the call.

The doors open onto the parking level.

Suzanne is at the car, in her uniform. Her hair is up. She is holding the sketchbook against her chest with both hands.

I cross to her. "Are you okay?"

"No," she says. "But I will be." She holds the sketchbook out.

I take it.

I briefly open it — three pages, the hands, the lobby, and a new one I haven't seen. It’s a woman at a kitchen table, painting a small clay pot. The line work is softer than the others, thewoman not finished, her face turned away from the artist as though the artist couldn't make herself put the face in.