I was behind my desk, scowling through the latest vague report from the FBI, when I was interrupted by a knock at my door.
“Unless the building is actively on fire, I suggest you leave,” I barked.
Petula flung my door open. “If you don’t lighten up, IT is going to have to replace your down arrow key again.”
I pettily stabbed the key again with excessive force.
“Do you have a reason for annoying me, or are you hoping to get fired too?”
“You’d never find someone else less annoying to deal with your temper tantrums. Now if you’re done being a gigantic toddler, your mother is here, sir.”
Behind her in the doorway stood my mother, who looked like she was desperate for an escape. Shit.
Kayla Rollins was a lovely woman by anyone’s estimation. She was tall and delicate. Everything about her seemed ethereal, fragile. She wore her thick, dark hair swept back in a sleek twist. Simple gold hoops adorned her ears. Her dress was ivory, her coat a knee-length camel. Her face looked younger, fresher, and I guessed she’d paid another visit to Dr. Reynolds. Something I should have noticed if I’d bothered paying attention to her bank accounts lately.
She’d never remarried after my father. And except for a brief stint in Grover’s Groceries the summer after his arrest, she’d never held down a job. I’d gotten “creative” in college, supporting myself and my mother with some legal and not strictly legal employment, selling test scores and fake IDs.
“I can come back another time,” my mother said, her dark eyes darting for an exit.
I rose and used the walk from desk to door to rein in my dickishness. “Go home, Petula. After you’ve given security instructions,” I said, nodding toward my mother. I didn’t need Anthony Hugo targeting her too.
“Gladly,” she snapped.
“What can I do for you, Mom?” I asked more gently.
“It’s really not that important,” she said to her Jimmy Choo wedges as she inched for the door.
“It’s fine,” I insisted as gently as possible. “What do you need?”
I looked like him. I assumed it was this reminder of old ghosts that always made her behave so tentatively toward me.
“Well, I just came from a meeting with the event coordinator at the hotel. There was a problem sourcing some of the menu items, and the budget is…no longer adequate,” she finished quickly as if ripping off some invisible bandage.
I drew on the last reserves of my patience. “That’s fine. I’ll allocate more funds if you think the changes are necessary.”
“I think it’s a good idea?”
Most of her statements sounded like questions, as if she were asking someone else to constantly tell her what she thought and wanted.
“I’m fine with it.”
She cleared her throat. “So how are things with you?”
“Fine,” I said gruffly. “I’ve decided to sell the house in Knockemout.”
“Oh. That’s…nice.”
We never discussed what had happened in that house. We never mentioned his name. We hadn’t even discussed the fact that he was dead. We were both satisfied with sweeping it under the rug and then avoiding the gigantic lump in the middle.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Oh, fine.” She hesitated, then glanced down again. “Actually, I’m seeing someone.”
“You are?” I’d missed that too. I blamed Sloane for distracting me from keeping a closer eye on my mother. Another item on the long list of things I blamed her for. My anger welled up again like lava from a volcano. Anger and a stupid longing that felt like a knife to the gut.
“It’s nothing serious,” she said quickly. “We just met.”
“Good for you, Mom.” I meant it too. There was no reason both of us should be paying penance for my father’s actions.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said, waving her slim hand in the direction of my desk.
“We’ll have dinner soon,” I decided.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“Security will see you home.”
Her eyes widened. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“Oh, all right. Well, goodbye, Lucian.”
“Bye, Mom.”
We managed to meet in the middle for an awkward hug, and then she was gone.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Nash: Hey, fuckface. Did you just seriously fire my woman?
Christ.