“Roe.” His deep voice is shaken and breathless.
“Hey, man, how are—”
“Tomorrow night. My house.”
“Are you okay?”
“We need to get rid—You need to fix what we talked about.”
“Sure,” I say, thinking as quickly as I can about this odd development. Maggie is leaning against the wall again, watching me through heavy lids. Brilliance strikes. “I need to bring my assistant too. Based on the research I’ve done.”
“Fine. Whatever. Bring your assistant. But nobody else.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t have to tell you that this conversation never happened.” It’s not a question. It’s a threat.
“Got it.”
“Good. Tomorrow night. My assistant will contact you for details.” The sudden silence of call-ended greets my ears.
Maggie blinks innocently, over the top. “Who was that?”
“What did you do?”
“I have news.” She gives me the biggest, cheesiest grin.
19
Maggie
Roe’s house is unexpected.Gorgeous, absolutely. Only much smaller than I thought. Smaller even than Mrs. Jenkins’s house. It’s still worth a cool couple million, but considering what he could surely afford it’s modest. Nestled in the Hollywood Hills past a few winding roads, it hides out of sight of all the neighbors. There’s a distinctly Japanese feel to it. The roof is low, the dark wood rooms are floor-to-ceiling windows, and the floor plan’s wide-open, separated only by thin sliding doors. At least the outer portion of the house. I have yet to see the bedrooms. The pool, which I see walking through to the back entrance, looks like a koi pond that morphs into an infinity pool.
Before entering the house, I stop to admire the view and clear my mind of worries, to just exist. It’s late. The adrenaline of the evening has melted away, leaving me exhausted.
I haven’t shared with him my new trick. On the drive up here, I caught him up on everything I overheard and Zebulund’s reaction in the steam room. But the farther up the hills we drove, the more the heaviness descended between us. There’s a distinct shift in Roe’s behavior toward me and I can’t quite figure out why. His eyebrows aren’t sharing for once.
“I never get sick of it,” I say, studying the city’s twinkling lights below. Despite the ever-present blanket of toxic pollution, the view always takes my breath away.
Literally, too, I guess.
“I know.” He sounds lost in thought. He’s right next to me, brushing my arm with his. His eyes squint as they search the horizon.
“I’ve lived in this city my whole life and the sunsets and these hills never get old.”
He remains quiet.
“You’re from Wyoming right?” I ask.
“Nebraska. We never had views like this, that’s for sure.”
“What was your house like growing up?”
His shoulders lift to block a breeze that doesn’t exist. “We should go in and get some sleep.”
Okay, noted. That vault is closed. I’m a little ashamed, or maybe chastened, after our moment earlier. It took a lot for me to admit my fear to him. Even more to touch him willingly and for so long. Was it too much to hope that would be reciprocated in some way? The truth thing.
He doesn’t tour me around the rest of the house. I tell myself it’s because we’re both exhausted and not because of this weird shift between us. Instead, he takes me to a small guest room, clean and tidy, still in the simple Japanese theme, but with sturdy Western walls. The room smells like clean linen with a little hint of lemon. The carpet is plush, so I slip out of my flip-flops immediately to dig my toes into it like warm sand on a beach.
