On the right, there’s a staircase that only goes up. Directly ahead, on the back wall, there’s an elevator, and Cameron notices that it has call buttons for both up and down. Michelle had said to take the elevator to the basement.
“Down the rabbit hole,” he says to himself as the elevator dings.
Right away as he exits, there’s this weird smell. Something waxy and spicy, like cinnamon, out of place for the middle of summer. It hits Cameron as soon as the elevator doors open. It must be coming from the candles, which are everywhere in the dark hallway, candles against mirrors on both sides making it look like there are a million little flames going off into infinity. Upon further inspection, he discovers that they’re fake candles. Which makes sense. What fire code allows someone to put so many candles in a basement?
What the hell is this place?
He follows a threadbare gray carpet down the hall and around a corner, which deposits him inside the world’s tiniest cocktail lounge.
It’s empty. A short bar, five stools tucked underneath. Warm light reflects off the brass ceiling tiles, giving the whole place a yellowish glow.
On the bar, there’s a small paper square propped in a holder. A menu. Mudminnow’s Bespoke Libations, it says at the top, followed by a list of drinks with ridiculous names. He blinks at the prices, making sure he’s reading them right. Do people not realize they can get a six-pack at any grocery store for half the price of one of these libations? He pulls out a bar stool and sits.
Something clinks, and Cameron looks up to see a girl come through a doorway behind the bar. She has short, bright green hair that reminds Cameron of flattened grass. She balances a stack of highball glasses in each hand, and her eyebrows register the tiniest moment of surprise before she begins to unload the glassware into some unseen shelf down in the well. “We open at eight,” she says, without looking up.
“I have a meeting.” Cameron clears his throat. “With Mr. Brinks.”
The grass-haired girl looks up. The expression on her face is painfully blank, as if Cameron were the least interesting thing she’s ever encountered.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Michelle set it up.” He hopes it’s okay to call Michelle by her first name.
The girl shrugs. “Okay,” she says, ducking away. “I’ll let him know.”
SIMON BRINKS.
Cameron has repeated the name in his head so many times these last two months, has studied so many photos of the coiffed man blown up huge on his billboards, that when this disheveled dude emerges from behind the bar with a tired smile, he almost doesn’t believe it could be him.
“Hi,” Cameron says, his voice suddenly shaky and nervous. “I’m—”
“I know who you are, Cameron.” Behind the bar, Simon’s smile broadens.
“You do?” Cameron’s heart hammers, but is it from nerves, or rage? Somehow the idea of socking or extorting this guy seems preposterous.
“Why do you think I suggested this venue?” Simon Brinks waves a hand around the tiny room. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I have lots of offices and properties, but this place was originally for Daphne. It’s the perfect spot for us to meet.”
Cameron’s pulse is pounding now. For Daphne? Is Brinks about to fess up to a lifetime of deadbeat parenthood, just like that?
Simon smiles. “You met Natalie.” He tips his head toward the doorway behind the bar, through which the grass-haired girl had disappeared. “She knows the whole story.”
“The whole story.” Cameron can barely force the words out.
“Well, sure. She’s my daughter.”
Daughter. His head whirls. A father and . . . a sister? Before he can stop himself, his eyes dart to the doorway behind the bar again. Could that girl with the strange hair really be his half sister?
Simon clasps his hands and leans on the bar. “You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”
“My mother.” Cameron swallows hard.
“Daphne always had those incredible eyes.”
Cameron sucks in an embarrassingly sharp breath. She did have pretty eyes, didn’t she? He wonders whether he’s inventing this or if he actually remembers.
“Anyway,” Brinks says, with a slight shrug that seems to knock the conversation in a more casual direction. “Can I pour you a drink?”
“A drink?”
“I make a mean old-fashioned.”
“Uh, a beer is fine. Whatever you have,” Cameron blurts. His ears burn. Why does he care? Is impressing one’s father a hardwired predisposition?