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My younger sister, Calista, and I were never very close. We were born a few years apart, which meant I felt a natural sense of separation immediately when she was born. The void between us grew even larger when our parents sent us to different schools. Calista got to stay at home in Manhattan, meanwhile I was whisked away to an all-boys boarding school in Connecticut. I hated that school, and I grew up feeling both suffocated and betrayed.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why my parents treated us so differently; why Calista was coddled, and I was so often left to fend for myself. Watching my parents dote on Calista made the distance between us grow even greater, and disinterest eventually evolved into resentment.
After our parents died, Calista went off the deep end and we lost contact. She made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with me, or the Preston family business.
Without our parents around, I dutifully accepted the burden of worrying about Calista. It wasn’t hard, keeping tabs on my sister, even though she wouldn’t speak to me directly, all I needed to do was flick on the TV or scroll through the news headlines to see that she was still alive.
I would always keep an eye out for her, and I would always force myself to be there when she needed me. I bailed her out of jail when she was arrested for a DUI. I paid for multiple rehab stints at Betty Ford. I kept the rent and utilities paid on her Upper East Side apartment.
I thought things had finally changed for the better when she announced that she was getting clean to have a baby. I actually breathed a sigh of relief, assuming that motherhood would give my sister the motivation she needed to get her shit together. Turns out, I was wrong.
“So,” the teacher sitting across from me snapped, pulling me out of my thoughts and back into reality, “What’s this big misunderstanding, huh?”
I sighed, shifting in my seat. As the head of a billion-dollar hotel empire, I was not used to being spoken to this way, and I was definitely not used to being looked at like I’m a criminal. But then, sitting in the cramped office, I might as well have been twelve years old again, sitting in the headmaster’s office at boarding school as he explained that I’ll be spending the fourth consecutive Christmas holiday at school, because my parents thought it would be “for the best” that I not join them on their annual family ski trip to the Alps.
I straightened my posture, and pushed the memory out of my head and forcing my mind to go blank.
“I’m Emmy Preston’s uncle,” I said. “Her mother, Calista, is my sister.”
“Emmy didn’t recognize you,” the teacher pointed out, her face firm and unrelenting.
I forced my mind to stay clear making it all too easy to notice how stunning the teacher is. I was too frazzled to really look at her in the schoolyard, too panicked by the accusations and worried looks coming from teachers and nannies and other parents. In a matter of seconds, with one point of Emmy’s finger, I had been deemed a villain.
A bad guy.
To diffuse the situation, the teacher had quickly snatched me by the sleeve and escorted me into the school. I couldn’t decide whether she was giving me a chance to explain myself, or if she was just trying to prevent a panic.
Now that I’ve had a moment to catch my breath, I finally get a good look at her.
“You have five seconds,” she said, snapping me out of my thoughts for the second time. “Five seconds before I call NYPD. I’ve got a special case squad detective on speed dial, and I’m warning you now, he’s not going to be half as patient with you as I have been.”
“Emmy’s mother and I aren’t on good terms,” I said. “I guess you could say that we’re estranged.”
“Then why would your sister ask you to pick Emmy up from school today?” the teacher asked defensively, narrowing her eyes.
“She didn’t,” I said flatly. “I haven’t spoken to Calista in years.”
I glanced down at her desk, and something about it reminded me of my own: it’s sterile, neat, completely devoid of life. No family photos in goofy mismatched frames, no Post-It note reminders, no flowers, no color. Just a computer and a nameplate that reads ‘Daisy Wright.’
“Family kidnapping is a crime that NYPD takes very serious--”
“Daisy, is it?” I asked, flicking my eyes up from the nameplate and meeting her glare.
“Miss Wright,” she corrected me, and I watched her frown tighten. She was clearly losing patience with me.
“Miss Wright, I received a phone call today from Child Protective Services informing me that I have been awarded emergency custody of my niece”.
“What?” Daisy’s face softened, and for the first time I saw a glimmer of belief flash through her eyes. “What happened? Is Calista alright?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just know that she’s in a hospital in California.”
“But if she’s in California… who’s been at home with Emmy?” Daisy’s face softened a little more, this time filling with a protective sort of panic.
“The nanny,” I said, recounting the phone conversation I had earlier in my office. I had asked the same questions that Daisy was asking now. I had demanded the same answers. And honestly, none of it had made any sense to me either. “But Calista must have been gone longer than expected, because the nanny called 911 in a panic this morning, right before fleeing
the apartment.”
“Wow,” Daisy shook her head, and she looked like she might cry. “The nanny just left?”
