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He ducked his head. So cheeky it was almost robbed him of his moment to explain things to Foley. “I didn’t know her name. I didn’t touch her and I didn’t know you thought I’d hurt her when you came here that night.”
“I should’ve let you defend yourself.”
“But I acted like I was guilty and I am, Foley.” He sought her eyes again. “Just not of hurting Alison.”
“What did you do, Drum, who did you hurt?” This was the right question and the right time to answer her.
He looked away. He could rollcall the three hundred and eighty-seven names. He could tell her where each of those people lived, which countries, which suburbs, who their families were and when their lives had been disrupted. “I hurt people like Alison and their families. People who had reason to trust me.”
“Okay, you’re scaring me.” Foley leaned back against the stair railing. That wasn’t near enough distance from what he was.
“I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a penniless hobo.”
She waved a pizza crust at him. “You mean I paid for pizza and you can afford to replace this bottle of wine?” She was trying to joke, to make this easier for him, but her face showed how tenuous her hold on that was.
“I own that bottle of wine and the four hundred other bottles in the cellar. I own this foyer, this staircase, this house.”
She looked at the plastic cup of wine in her hand. “I don’t understand. It’s owned by a trust.”
“I own that trust. I’m worth conservatively,” he studied the label on the wine bottle. He’d taken no care choosing it, but no bottle in the cellar was worth less than two hundred dollars, “hell, I don’t know anymore. I’m your average rich-lister and I really need to buy you a better car.”
“What?” She tossed the wine back in a long swallow and reached for the bottle.
“That crappy car you drive, it’s not safe.”
“Stop. I need a reboot.” She refilled her cup. “You’re serious.” She waved it at him. “You own this house and you want to buy me a car. You’re not buying me a car.”
“Not without an argument.”
“Drum.”
He shook his head, no more distractions, no more stalling. “I told you my father was a chemist. I said we started a company together. Have you heard of a drug called Circa?”
“A sleeping pill. My dad took it when he was having trouble with insomnia. It helped him a lot.”
Drum grabbed for Foley’s free hand. The thought anyone in her family could be affected was like a knife in his side. “Promise me you’ll make sure he never takes it again.” She jerked in surprise and wine sloshed out of her cup, over the last slice of pizza resting in the box.
He released her. “I’m sorry.” At this rate he’d confuse her, frighten her, lose her before he was ready to. “You have to promise me.”
“Okay.” Her eyes were big and concerned. “I promise.”
“My father is the chairman of a company called NCR pharmaceuticals. It’s the company that developed and markets Circa. His name is Alan Drummond.”
“Drum?”
“Was my nickname at school. Alan called me Trick, to everyone else I’m the founding CEO of NCR, Patrick Drummond.”
She stood and walked down the two steps to the floor, turned and faced him. “We have to start again because this is not making any sense.”
“I didn’t hurt Alison, but I saw her in the park.”
“I got that bit. And the part about you not being a hermit squatte
r.”
“I am a squatter, this was my home, one of them. I just can’t be here.”
“You’re worth millions, billions?”
