“Why can’t you? This has been on your calendar for weeks.”
“It’s been on yours, too. And yet, here we are.”
There’s silence on the other end. “Hello?” I say even though I know he’s there.
“Fine. I’ll have my assistant send her a message.”
“Fine.” I echo his clipped cadence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Alice says you’re staying at The Salamander. Which is absurd when you have a home right across the river. Bring your luggage with you in the morning. You’ll stay at The Palms while you’re here.”
He disconnects the call after issuing his command.
“Dammit, Alice.” I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes.
I asked my aunt to play dumb when he asked where I was staying tonight. It’s my fault for forgetting how much sway he has over her.
Over everyone, really.
The three months I spent with my parents before my mother died felt like three years. For more than twenty years, I hadn’t seen them more than one weekend a year. They had become functional strangers with very little in common.
When my mother and I were alone, we had real conversations. She told me about her life, her family, and gave me advice that I know I’ll heed.
But I hated living under the same roof as my father. He was controlling, dismissive, and selfish. I played the role of dutiful son for my mother’s sake. But when I left for Los Angeles on the evening of her funeral, I swore I’d never spend another night in that house.
I may have had to come back for her will reading, but it would take an act of God to make me stay a minute longer than I have to.
Chapter Three
Sin
Enough
I booked a room at The Salamander because nearly all of them have a view of the Tidal Basin and a balcony. I sit in one of the chairs out there, phone in hand and heart hammering.
I had the cameras installed after someone broke into our apartment, ransacked my office, and stole my laptop.
I had the misfortune of coming home in the middle of the robbery and found myself staring at the barrel of a pistol. The masked man pointing it in my face shoved me to my knees and told me to close my eyes.
I begged him to take whatever he wanted and leave.
He told me to shut up and not look at him. I thought my life was over and all I could do was pray.
When I heard the door close behind him, the rush of relief nearly stopped my heart. But I was too scared to move.
I don’t know how long I sat there before I finally found the clarity to call the police.
By the time they arrived, the intruder was long gone and I was a useless witness who couldn’t describe anything but the gun he used. They took my statement, gave me a number to call to check on my case, and suggested I consider getting a personal firearm and installingsecurity cameras.
After they left, I called Stephen to tell him what happened. He sent the call to voicemail. An hour later he texted me to let me know he was hopping on a flight for an impromptu basketball game in Houston and promised to call me when he landed.
In the aftermath of it all, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the apartment, so I checked into a hotel near my office. I called in sick for the next two days and used the time to apply for my federal firearms license and found someone to install the cameras.
The day I was supposed to go back to work, I woke up to an email from the editor in chief informing me thatThe Guardianhad published an article that scooped mine. He informed me that they wouldn’t run the article I’d just submitted for edits. He also told me that they’d chosen someone else for the editor at large role. A role I’d been a shoo-in for.
It was the straw that broke my heart and my brain all at once. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t stay in this house, with that man, or at that paper another minute.
I replied to the email with my resignation, told my parents I was coming home for Easter early, and left a note on the fridge for Stephen.
