Someone Is Watching (36 page)

“Bailey, it’s Gene,” my half-brother suddenly bellows in my ear. “I need to speak to you as soon as possible.”

“Shit,” I say again, deleting both messages. Seconds later, the phone rings.

“Hi, Miss Carpenter,” the voice says as soon as I pick up. “It’s Finn, from the concierge desk. Your brother is here. The big one,” he adds, his voice a whisper.

Panic wells up inside me. Damn it. I’m really not up for this. “Okay. I guess you better send him up.”

“You didn’t return my call,” Gene says, striding into my apartment as if prepared to tackle anyone in his way.

It is at times like this that Bailey regrets keeping a landline. Most of the people she knows have done away with theirs long ago. Maybe once she replaces her stolen cell phone … “I just got home. I was at the police station, a lineup.…”

“They got the guy?”

“No. I wasn’t able to.…”

“That’s too bad.” He scratches the side of his thin nose. My father’s nose, I realize, in the middle of his mother’s face. Gene proceeds, uninvited, into my living room and sits down, adjusting his dark blue tie. I notice drops of rain on the shoulders of his blue-and-white seersucker suit. “What’s this about wanting me to peek into a sealed record?”

“What? No. I.…”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I never suggested.… I would never have asked.…”

“You
do
know such information is inadmissible in court.”

“I know that. I’m really sorry.”

“Sit down, Bailey,” he directs, as if we are in his office and not my apartment. “And listen carefully because I’m not going to repeat what I’m about to say. Ever. Is that clear?”

I nod, holding my breath.

“Jason Harkness broke into a 7-Eleven when he was fifteen years old, hitting the store clerk over the head with a bottle and making off with forty-three dollars and nineteen cents,” he tells me, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. “He did sixteen months in juvie and then petitioned to have his record sealed. He’s been clean ever since. There’s nothing in his files to suggest rapist tendencies, yet he’s clearly capable of violence. So, whether this helps or not, I can’t say. That’s it. That’s all she wrote.” He folds his hands inside his lap.

“Thank you.” I try to comprehend the implications of what
I’ve just learned. I’m also waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t know Gene well, but I know him well enough to know he doesn’t give without expecting something in return.

I don’t have to wait long.

“Look,” he says, clearing his throat. “This is obviously a very stressful time for you. And we—your brothers and sister and I—don’t want to be the source of any more stress for you.”

Has Claire been talking to them? Has she persuaded her brothers to drop their lawsuit?

“We were thinking—hoping—you’d want to settle,” he says before I can ask.

“Settle?”

“The last thing that any of us wants, and surely the last thing you need, is a bitter and very public court battle, especially now, when you’re trying to recover from this hideous attack. It would be a tragedy were this lawsuit to interfere with the progress you’ve been making.…”

“You’re only thinking of my best interests.” Sarcasm clings to my voice like honey to a spoon.

Gene pretends not to notice. “Yes, exactly. I’m positive that if we were all just to sit down and talk this through like reasonable adults.…”

“You think that suing me for virtually my father’s entire estate is reasonable?”

“He was my father, too, Bailey. He had seven children, not just two. And we’re only asking for our fair share.” Gene is growing red in the face. His right foot taps impatiently on my cowhide rug. He doesn’t like being challenged, which must be difficult in his line of work. “Look, Bailey. It’s obvious that our father wasn’t in his right mind when he changed his will,” he says, trying a different approach. “He was depressed over your mother’s death and angry at what he perceived as his older children’s indifference to what you were all going through.”

“Are you saying he shouldn’t have been depressed, that he had no right to be angry?”

“He had no right to disinherit us.”

“It was
his
money.”

“It was
family
money,” Gene insists. “You’re forgetting that my mother worked very hard to support him when they were first married.…”

“And you’re forgetting that our father provided for her very well after their divorce. If I’m not mistaken, he gave both of his ex-wives several million dollars in their divorce settlements and also provided very generous child support.”

“All of which pales in comparison to the windfall you and Heath will receive. And speaking of Heath,” he continues in the same breath, trying yet another tack, “I doubt our father would want your brother pissing away his fortune on drugs and dissolute hangers-on.”

“Dissolute hangers-on,” I repeat, managing to sound outraged despite having had the same thoughts myself. “That’s quite the mouthful.”

“Facts are facts,” Gene states, as if delivering his summation to a jury. “Heath likes to party, his friends are dicey at best, he’s never held a job in his life.…”

“He’s an actor and a screenwriter.…”

“Really? What movies has he acted in? What scripts has he written?”

“You know it’s not easy these days. It takes time. He’s trying.…”

“Bailey …”

“Eugene,” I say pointedly, using the name I know he hates.

He’ll take our father’s money but won’t use his name. Before this visit, I was actually leaning toward reaching some sort of settlement with him and the rest of my half-siblings.

“I just think it would be a mistake to put that kind of money into the hands of someone who will more than likely turn around and blow it out his nose,” Gene says, sealing his fate once and for all.

“And I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Be reasonable, Bailey.…”

I stand up and walk toward the front door. Gene sighs and follows. I open the door and he steps reluctantly into the hallway.

“I want to thank you for the photographs you gave Claire,” he says, in what is clearly an afterthought. “That was very kind of you.”

“Consider us even,” I say. Then I shut the door in his face.

An hour later I am standing at the bank of elevators in the lobby of the gleaming white marble tower that houses the law offices of Holden, Cunningham, and Kravitz. I have only an indistinct sense of how I got here—a bumpy cab ride through the rain-lashed streets of Miami—and an even less distinct sense of why I’m here at all. Did I come to see Sally? To confront Sean? To escape Gene, whose stubborn presence continues to haunt my apartment, a place that has started to feel more like a prison than the safe haven it’s always been?

But here I stand. A sudden, overwhelming anxiety has seized control of my legs and rooted them to the floor as deeply as the decorative marble columns nearby. I watch the half-dozen elevators arrive and depart at steady, if irregular, intervals, brass art deco doors opening and closing, busy well-dressed people making entrances and exits, the process repeated so many times it becomes meaningless, the same way a word loses its meaning through too much repetition. I feel an unpleasant numbness spread from the bottoms of my feet and curl around my toes, then move up my legs toward my thighs and creep between my legs.

I am experiencing an episode of post-traumatic shock,
I tell myself.
I am not crazy.

“Bailey?”

A loud guttural protest escapes my lips, causing those in my immediate vicinity to take a cautionary step back.

“Sorry,” a young woman says, although the way she’s looking at me suggests I should be the one apologizing to her. “I thought it was you. It’s Vicki, from accounting?” she asks, as if she isn’t sure. “My God, you’re soaking wet.”

“Am I?” A quick glance tells me that Vicki from accounting is right. Water is dripping from my shoulders and forming puddles on the floor around me.

She laughs. “Well … yes, you are!” She stares at me as if she’s half-expecting me to burst into flames. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

Vicki from accounting is a pretty girl with straight brown hair that falls almost to her waist. She is wearing a gray dress and black heels that are so high I wonder how she manages to stand in them, let alone walk. I used to wear shoes like that, I think, looking down at my flat sandals. I used to have no trouble at all walking.

“Are you headed upstairs?” She pushes the call button, although it is already lit. I nod, and she smiles. “How’s everything going?”

Exactly how much does she know, how much information, both true and false, has the office gossip mill generated? “Getting a little better every day.”

“Thinking about coming back soon?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope you do. We miss you.”

I find this odd, since this exchange is probably the longest we’ve ever shared. “I miss you, too,” I tell her, partly because it is expected and partly because it is, surprisingly, true.

An elevator arrives, and the doors slide open. “Coming?” Vicki from accounting asks, stepping inside and waiting for me to do the same. The door knocks against her shoulder and the buzzer starts to sound when my feet refuse to budge, and I delay too long. “Bailey? Are you coming?”

A man pushes past me, the sudden motion serving to propel me inside.

Vicki from accounting presses the button for the twenty-fifth floor, then glances over at me, her fingers hovering in front of the panel. “Mr. Holden’s on twenty-seven, right?”

Why does she assume I’m here to see Sean? Does she know of our affair? Is this another piece of juicy office gossip I’m responsible for?

“Twenty-six,” I say. “I thought I’d say hello to Sally first.”

“Oh, yeah. Talk about crazy busy. She’s working on the Aurora and Poppy Gomez divorce. Can you believe what’s going on there? They say he slept with over a thousand women in the last two years alone. That’s like one a
night.
”

I try to convince myself that Vicki from accounting is merely exaggerating to make a point and that this is not an indication of her actual accounting skills.

“Excuse me,” a woman says from somewhere in the back of the cab as the elevator doors open onto the seventeenth floor. I feel several bodies rearrange themselves behind me as she pushes her way to the door, exiting as a man gets on. The man is about thirty-five and of average height and weight. He smells of expensive soap and mouthwash, crisp and clean.

Tell me you love me.

I reach for the nearest wall, telling myself to stay calm. This is not the man who raped me. The lineup this morning has upset my balance, throwing my imagination into overdrive.
I am not crazy.

Seconds later, we arrive at the twenty-fifth floor, and Vicki steps out into the impressive, green marble-paneled reception area of Holden, Cunningham, and Kravitz. She turns around to say goodbye and finds me just inches from her face. “Oh,” she says, startled at finding me so close. “I thought you were going to twenty-six.”

“I should probably call Sally first,” I say, pretending to be searching through my purse for my stolen cell phone. “You said she was crazy busy.…”
Vicki from accounting smiles awkwardly. “Well, it was nice seeing you again. Good luck with everything.”

“Thank you.” I watch her greet the receptionist, then walk through the glass doors toward the offices on the east side of the building. Beyond those doors is the steady hum of people going about their business.

I used to be part of that hum. I used to have business to go about.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” the receptionist asks. I’ve never seen her before. She must be new. And she’s gorgeous—there’s no other word for it.

“I’m Bailey Carpenter,” I tell her, approaching the massive green granite counter she sits behind. “I work here. I’m on a short leave of absence,” I continue, unprompted.

I am temporarily blinded by her movie star smile. “Are you here to see anyone in particular?” she asks.

I hesitate, deciding in that instant that I never should have come, that I have to get out of here right now. I turn back toward the elevators just as one opens and Sean Holden steps into the foyer.

Unless he doesn’t.

Unless I’m only imagining him and the “Oh shit” look in his eyes.

“Bailey,” he says, walking toward me, arms extended. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. What are you doing here?”

My throat goes dry. I feel dizzy, light-headed, faint. “I work here. Remember?”

And suddenly I’m in his arms. Although only for a second. Only for as long as it takes him to whisper, “I’ve been meaning to call.…” And then backing away, saying, “I see somebody got caught in the rain.” He swats at the dampness my hug has deposited on his beige linen jacket.

“Forgot my umbrella,” I manage to stutter.

“How are you doing?”

“When did you get back?” The questions overlap.

“On Sunday. Uh … give me a minute, okay?” He walks toward the receptionist’s desk.

“Mr. Holden?” she says brightly, and I can’t help notice the way she looks at him, navy blue eyes all but twinkling. Is he looking at her with the same twinkle? I wonder.

I hear he’s quite the player,
Gene once said to me. Was I always this blind? Was I always this stupid?

Stupid enough not to take an umbrella, despite warnings of a major storm front. Stupid enough to have an affair with a married man, despite knowing it would end badly. Stupid enough to still go all weak in the knees at the very sight of him.

“Would you tell Barry York that I’ll be a few minutes late?”

“Certainly, Mr. Holden.”

“Is anyone using Conference Room B?”

The receptionist checks the large appointment book in front of her. “Not a soul.”

Sean returns to my side. “Come on.” He takes my arm and guides me toward the glass doors opposite the ones that Vicki from accounting walked through earlier.

Conference Room B is a small rectangle of a room whose floor-to-ceiling windows face west into the city, although at the moment all that is visible are black skies and a steady downpour. “It’s turning into a pretty nasty day,” Sean remarks, and I briefly wonder if he is referring to the weather or my unexpected visit. He closes the solid oak door behind him, giving me another quick hug and then breaking away before I can reciprocate. He motions for me to sit down in one of the twelve upholstered red chairs grouped around the long oak table, and I all but fall into the seat as he pulls up the chair beside me. He swivels it around, sitting down and facing me so that our knees are touching, then reaches over and takes my hands, his eyes searching mine. “How are you, Bailey? You look so tired.”