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Or maybe I’ve gone so long without sleep that I’m losing any remaining grip on sanity.
Loud banging on the front door startles me awake, which is my first inclination that I’d actually fallen asleep. I hadn’t shut my bedroom door, so the sound echoes loudly. It takes a second for me to orient myself in the dim room. My eyes ache with the effort it takes to open them completely.
Groggily, I reach for my phone and realize that only thirty minutes have passed since I initially laid down.
The banging on the front door comes again, confirmation that I hadn’t imagined or dreamed it the first time.
Anya must have forgotten her key. With a groaned curse, I rise out of bed and stumble through the living room. I swear she better have brought back something for me to eat if she’s going to startle me awake like this. Can’t a girl take a nap in the middle of the day in peace?
I wrench the door open, prepared to say exactly that, but it isn’t Anya standing in the hallway with to-go boxes in her hands.
My gaze takes in the pressed shirt and bright red tie first because they’re right at eye-level. Even though I see the skull pin on his lapel, antique gold glinting dully in the light, it takes a few seconds for my sleep-deprived brain to put the pieces together.
My gaze finally rises to his face.
I get a sensation like I’m in free-fall, that sick feeling that comes just after you take the first steep drop on a roller coaster. Except there isn’t anything thrilling about this.
He is very last person I expect to see standing in the hallway. Not because it wasn’t possible, but because I was stupid enough to think I could make this work.
The last time we met, he told me that he could never be more disappointed in me. As I stare into his eyes, cornflower blue just like mine, I realize with a fleeting spurt of sick satisfaction that he was wrong.
There is no stopping this runaway train now. It has officially pulled out of the station. I plaster a smile on my face, despite the voice in my head screaming for me to slam the door shut before he opens his mouth.
“Hey, Dad.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I take a cab from the airport. The ride to Anton’s house feels like the reverse of when I first met my father. The longer we drive, the older and smaller the houses become. Lush landscaping makes way for scrubby yards filled with patchy grass. It’s impossible to tell if people are preparing for yard sales or just using their front lawns as extra storage space.
Anton’s family home is even smaller than I thought it would be. The single-story clapboard house doesn’t seem large enough for raising children. I can’t imagine that there are more than two bedrooms, maybe three if one of them is tiny. Chipped siding and a sagging foundation fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. The house is at least fifty years old and it doesn’t look like anything has been done to it since the day it was built.
It bothers me that the first thing I notice is how small the place is. I might have spent my early years in a wooden shack with a tin roof and no indoor plumbing, but the memories of that time are distant. My father drenched me in luxury from the day I arrived to live with him for precisely this reason. He wanted to make sure that anything less than what he could provide would never seem like enough again.
Wealth is freedom. The constant drive to attain it will trap you just as quickly as having nothing does, if you’re not careful. Once you start running on the hamster wheel, the only way off is to let it fling you against the wall of the cage.
Cracked pavement leads to a set of concrete steps up to the front porch. There are no decorations or furniture outside, but the yellowing lawn has been recently mowed. It’s early enough that none of the neighbors are outside, but I get the impression this neighborhood is mostly retirees judging by just how quiet it is.
It’s weird for me to just show up like this, but there wasn’t exactly time to call ahead. I got Anton’s address from an old school directory, but there wasn’t an updated phone number. The cell phone number I had for him from his time at St. Bart’s has been disconnected.
I ring the doorbell and a dog starts barking, something small like a Chihuahua or Pekingese. The dog goes on for long enough that I wonder if anyone is home, even though it’s barely past eight AM on a Saturday.
Eventually, I hear the shuffle of footsteps on the wooden floor and a shouted quiet that I assume is aimed at the dog.
“Who is it?” a woman shouts through the door over the still yapping dog.
“My name is Drake. I’m a friend of Anton’s from St. Bart’s. Is he home?”
“Hold your ID up where I can see it.”
“Yeah, sure.” I take out my driver’s license and hold it to the peephole.
Seconds pass and then a full minute while I wait for a response. The only noise is the snuffling sound as the dog on the other side noses at the bottom of the door. For all I know, whoever answered has already walked away.
“Can I come in?” I ask, after another minute of silence.
Locks click open one-by-one, at least three dead bolts and a chain, before an older woman with wild hair pokes her head out and looks around. Her narrowed gaze takes in the deserted street behind me before turning to my face. “Hurry up, then.”
The house is dark and musty on the inside. The dog scurries away as soon as I come inside, literally all bark and no bite. There are no lights on, so it’s hard to make out any details, but I’m immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of clutter. Magazines and books are stacked to the ceiling on either side of the hallway, leaving barely enough space to navigate a path. We pass the kitchen and I notice a sink overflowing with dishes and empty food containers on the counters before looking away.
