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After shoving the device a little too forcefully into the side pocket of his trademark gray cargo pants, George finally makes eye contact. "Nate is unable to come by. His little lap dog is glued to his side after not showing up in the office this week."
I narrow my eyes at the man in front of me, and he amends, "Hank Todd."
Oh.
Not knowingwhat else to do and unable to look into Turner myself—my brother hasn't covered that aspect in his lesson plan—I aimlessly trail the mansion. The walls are starting to close in, and I've only been here for four days. George and Nate are adamant that I am not allowed to leave the property. The sudden onslaught of emotions knocks me back on my heels. What if Turner now goes directly after my family and friends? Did I make a mistake by coming here? I was so focused on my revenge against Katherine and the relief of Rhys not breaking up with me that I neglected all the other potential consequences. Why is Turner after me? What is my connection to a man that faked his death when I was just a kid?
I find myself back in front of Brooks’s office. George is downstairs and won’t come looking for me anytime soon. I shouldn’t, but even as I’m still thinking the words, my hand reaches out.
If it’s locked, I’ll go to my room.
My fingers close around the cool metal of the handle, and it eases down without the slightest resistance. Letting the door swing inward, the hairs on the back of my neck stand like someone is watching me. There are no cameras in the house; Nate doesn't know that I'm here. Brooks was my father, too. I don't need to feel guilty.
My pep talk isn't working, and the guilt of my trespassing is taking over every cell of my body. I scan the inside from where I’m rooted to the floor. Brooks’s home office does not look like the rest of the decor. Most of the mansion is bright, soft colors on the walls, light wood tones for the furniture. My biological father’s personal space is... I try to find an appropriate description, and all I can come up with is 1950s Ad Agency. The walls are dark gray. The spaces around the big picture window hold identical shelves. Both pieces appear to be custom made; they’re not attached but fit perfectly. Acorn boards are connected and held up by thin polished black metal bars with cabinet doors where the two lower shelf boards would have been. Centered in front of them is a massive, mid-century style desk made of the same wood. A high-back office chair behind and two low-sitting armchairs in front—all three of the softest black leather—complete the design.
I close my eyes and count to five. Nate never specifically said I wasn't allowed in here. I'm not doing anything wrong. Why do I feel like such an intruder?
Because you are, my inner voice sneers.
Three more breaths and my feet finally cooperate. I take one step after another until I'm in the middle of the room. The crew hired to prepare the house for my arrival must've cleaned this room as well since there is not one speck of dust anywhere. I spin in a circle and discover more identical shelves around the door. Books and different memorabilia decorate all four, while the two walls to the left and right contain large paintings that look suspiciously like the ones I found in the art studio down the hall. I wonder if Payton had a hand in decorating or if they hired someone.
I scan the books—some biographies, some business-related, no fiction anywhere. I stop at a small bronze Viking statue on a warship. The detail is captivating, and I have to force myself to move on. The more objects I discover, the more I come to the conclusion that they must be souvenirs from their travels. There is a glass with black sand, a mask, seashells, and a stand with several pipes.
When I reach the desk, I move the chair backward and slowly lower myself down. Placing both hands flat on the desk, I scan the room once more.
This is where Brooks used to work when he was not in the office. Did he read Emily’s letters here? Nate’s words come back to me: Ifound a stack of letters and pictures in his desk at the house.
My gaze falls to the drawers on either side of me. Swiping my palms on my pant legs, I glance back and forth between them. Screw it. I carefully slide the top right one open, unsure of what to expect. I don't anticipate finding all the answers in the first drawer I look into, yet there is a nervous flutter in my stomach.
All I discover are blank legal pads.
"What are you doing?" My brother's voice makes me jolt in the seat, and my head snaps toward the door.
"Nate." I'm like a deer in the headlights.
"What are you doing in here?" he repeats, not taking his eyes off my face. It’s as if he refuses to acknowledge the room I’m in.
He wasn't supposed to come over. Shit.
"I...uh..." I stammer as I push away from the desk. When I step in front of him, all I manage is a strangled, "I’m sorry."
His eyes are still fixed on me, but his tense features soften. "I haven’t seen this room in a long time."
"I shouldn’t have come in. I—"
"You were curious about your father. I understand." Nate's tone is calm, yet his rigid posture screams on edge. This is where it all began for us, where he found out about me.
I gently place my hand on his chest and push against it. He lets me move him farther into the hallway, and I close the door on my way out. As soon as his view of the office is blocked by the wooden barrier, his stance relaxes, and he unfastens his stare from my face.
"I'm sorry," I say again, a little more confident this time.
"Don't be. I...it's..." He sighs, grasping for words. "You can enter any room in this house. I would never stop you. It's just...I..." He trails off again.
"You can’t go in," I finish the sentence for him, and he nods.
I hope that one day, when we have our answers, things will change—that Nate can heal.
I followmy brother to the first floor where George is waiting for us in the kitchen. Sitting at the breakfast nook, I give both of them a detailed rundown on Heather and Tristen's news.
