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The line dies in my ear.
I roar for the second time this morning and toss the entirety of my desk phone against the far wall. It smashes into dozens of smaller, broken pieces of plastic, resembling Lego shapes on the floor.
The door flies open and Agnes scrambles through, eyes wide and alarmed. “Mr. Adams, is everything okay?! I heard a commotion!”
“Take my messages. Cancel my meetings. No visitors.”
“But you’re due at Judge Kodjoe’s chambers in an hour—”
“I said cancel my meetings!” I yell over her.
It’s the first time I’ve ever yelled at Agnes in the seven years she’s been working for me. Her mouth clamps shut and she blinks away the immediate onslaught of tears. My instinct is to apologize, but I tamp that down in another spate of irritation, pacing around my desk. Finally getting the hint, she eases the door shut.
I don’t hear a peep from her the rest of the day.
What the hell do they mean meet on the rooftop of the Northam Bank?
I amnotowned by their ridiculous society! I’ve vowed to never let myself be!
Their threat is clear—if I don’t comply, they’ll release unsavory information about my father. It’ll tarnish our family name and reputation. Potentially ruin my campaign for district attorney.
While my record is squeaky clean, I can’t say the same about Huxley Adams, my late father.
In fact, almost everything the public believes they know about him is a lie. Everything Leontine and the kids know about him.
And Mother... she’d be so upset if the truth got out. After so many decades, she’s convinced herself he was a good man. She still wears his rose necklace…
My hands come up to my face and I dig the base of my palms into the hollows of my eyes. The pressure behind them feels unbearable, like I’m liable to pop a blood vessel at any moment.
What the hell am I supposed to do?!
* * *
It’s Christmas Eve night. Rather than keeping my promise to my wife and kids, I’m begrudgingly breaking it, as I step off the subway escalator and peer up at the towering skyscraper.
Flakes of snow have begun falling in slow motion.
Festive holiday lights twinkle from every direction. They’re wound along street lights and lamp posts. In trees and store windows. Cheerful and bright.
Only a few blocks away, the Christmas market knows its most crowded night of the year. Many deep in the city make a tradition out of visiting the night before the real thing.
Meanwhile, other traditions fall by the wayside; Leontine is probably shaking her head at home, standing in front of the extravagant feast prepared for tonight’s family dinner. If I know my wife well, she’s dressed up and so have the kids. The house is probably resonating with Christmas music and carrying pleasing notes of pine and cedar.
And here I am, breaking their hearts.
I heave a deep sigh, and with a rueful shake of my head, I plunge onward. Dressed in my trench coat, suit, and briefcase, I put on the same power walk I had earlier when navigating my morning. These cronies aren’t going to shake my confidence.
I’m Ernest Huxley Adams.
I always come out on top. I always win. One way or another, I’ll make sure of it.
The elevator ride up to the top is forty-seven floors. It dings once it reaches the top level, the doors parting down the middle. I take in a final breath and then stride forward.
Being minutes before seven-thirty in the evening on Christmas Eve, the place is a ghost town. The staff and executives are nowhere to be found.
I don’t encounter a single soul my whole journey to the roof.
They’re waiting for me when I arrive.
