by Holly Hart
I should run.
I crouch down and go for the nearest weapon I can find: a croquet mallet. Don’t even ask me why we have it – it was a Robbie thrift-shop purchase. It was only two bucks, but I still think she got over-charged.
Even so, I’ve never been more grateful to see the big old wooden hammer that I’ve been stubbing my toe on it for the last six months. The wooden handle is comfortingly smooth in my hand. I promise myself that if I make it out of here, I’ll never moan at Robbie for cluttering our small apartment again.
“Is – Is anyone here?”
My voice is still faint and nervous.
I’m breathing heavily now. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My legs are jittery from the chemical, but strangely the desire to get the hell out of here has faded away.
No – I feel angry. The more I think about it, the stronger the feeling gets. Someone’s been in my home, and I’m pissed off.
Run? Hell. I’m going to fight.
I knock into a coat off the rack to my right, and it causes an avalanche: like a rockslide, only made out of moth-eaten thrift-shop coats. Well the element of surprise – now gone.
I charge around the corner into the living room, wielding a threatening mallet in my hand. My heart is pounding like it never has before. I’m terrified, and yet for some strange reason I’m charging forward into danger.
Someone’s been here, I’m certain of it. I can smell it.
I come to a sudden and immediate stop. The sight before my eyes hits me with an almost physical punch.
“Oh my God,” I gulp. Someone’s been here, all right; and destroyed the place.
Robbie’s room is in tatters. It looks like someone’s torn through it searching for drugs. The foldaway bed she sleeps on is lying on its side. Someone’s taken a knife and ripped through the upholstery, then dug in and torn it out.
“Robbie –?” I call.
I hear a thundering in my ears. It’s a mixture between short, shallow breaths and a heartbeat pounding like drums. I’m dreading what I might find. If Robbie was here when this place was ransacked, then –
Don’t think about it.
The living the room is small enough that it doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds to find out that Robbie’s not here. The floor is covered with our – now smashed – DVD collection. Shards of glass coat the floor from a collection of half-burnt Yankee candles…
…also smashed…
…Obviously.
My blood boils. I don’t know who did this, but I want to find them. And when I do, I’ll squeeze their balls until they squeal.
Who breaks into a place like ours? There’s no cash to find. The furniture’s been rescued from besides dumpsters, the decorations all home-made.
I hear a screech: a thundering: a clattering; a cry of pain.
I spin. My heart beat rises to unexplored levels: beating so fast I worry it will stretch too far. The mallet slips out of my hand, thudding against the floor.
“Shit,” I gasp.
It’s a pigeon: a fucking pigeon. Two, actually; fighting on the window ledge. A flurry of feathers explodes up; then swirls lazily down once they get caught on the breeze. I run my hand through my hair and close my eyes briefly as I recover from the shock.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “I do not need you guys in my life right now.”
Once I’m recovered from the panic, I pick my way through the rest of my shattered apartment. It only takes a couple of seconds to reassure myself that Robbie’s not here. But someone has been; and whoever that someone was, they picked through every last inch of our apartment.
My fear for Robbie’s safety has faded. But it’s been replaced by a less acute, yet no more serious worry.
Who did this, and why? They’ve been through the bank records I keep under my bed, my high-school transcript, everything.
This wasn’t a thief. Thieves don’t rummage through middle school report cards, especially not in this part of town. They are looking for something they can flip quickly, something to get them their next fix.
No, it’s obvious that this is a private investigator’s work. The question now is; who’s paying them; and is it Charlie Thorne..?
The ride back uptown seems to take twice as long. I scrunch my clothes in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
If Charlie really is having me followed, and getting people to go through my house, then I’m in trouble. I have a strange mixture of feelings toward him. On the one hand, I feel betrayed – betrayed that he doesn’t trust me, betrayed that he would do something this drastic.
But on the other – I can’t blame him. After all, he’s right not to trust me. I entered his life with the intention of stealing from him. It doesn’t matter that I’m beginning to doubt I can go through with it.
“C’mon, Robbie,” I mutter. I must have tried Robbie’s cell phone a hundred times since tearing out of our apartment so fast it was like I had hounds from hell on my tail.
Seeing our place in tatters like that terrified me.
It made me realize that nowhere is safe: not even our own home. I’ve never been burgled before – never had anything worth stealing – but I imagine that it feels the same way: shocking, like someone’s reached into your life and violated the things you hold most dear.
My cell phone beeps for the hundred and first time, and I throw it grumpily into my purse. I’m sure Robbie’s fine – just sleeping off a hangover somewhere – but until I know for sure, the panic runs riot.
The last leg of the journey takes me through Central Park. I see Charlie’s penthouse from what feels like miles away. It gives me time to think.
“Why do you have to be such a good man, you asshole?” I groan. A couple of mothers pushing strollers look at me out of the corner of their eyes, and quickly divert around me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Charlie Thorne was supposed to be an amoral, heartless, ruthless businessman. I was supposed to rip him off and feel good about it – not like this. Now I’m scared, conflicted – and not a little lost.
But what the hell am I supposed to do?
Get a divorce? I’ve only been married a couple of days!
Come clean?
The thought strikes me like a thunderbolt. Once it enters my mind, it’s all I can think of. I wonder what Robbie would think. Hell – I don’t need to. I know exactly what my best friend would say if she could hear my thoughts. She’d chew me out!
In no time at all, I find myself back at Charlie’s apartment building. I greet the doorman with a tight-lipped smile. He’s a nice guy, and deserves more than that, but right now I’m too stressed out to give it.
I ride the elevator up. The higher it climbs, the more the guilt rises in my throat. Trepidation builds in my stomach, but I know what I’m going to do. It’s the only thing I can do.
I’m going to confess everything to Charlie. I’ll throw myself on his mercy.
Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to work things out. Because the truth is – I never thought I would say this – I’m beginning to like him.
And I’ve never met a better man.
As the elevator doors slide open, I hear Charlie’s voice in the distance. I don’t know why, but I feel almost as though I’m eavesdropping. Then I can’t help myself.
I freeze, and listen.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie
I tap a button on my iPhone, and a familiar cascading chime plays on the apartment’s surround sound speakers. I press another button – this time on a wall console – and a set of shutter blinds descend from the ceiling to block out the lunchtime sunshine.
“Hey, baby, can you hear me?” I ask.
An image of my daughter flashes up on the huge wall-mounted television: kind of, anyway. At the moment she’s as stretched and distorted as an abstract painting. Electronic static crackles through the speakers, causing me to wince.
“Tilly?”
The feed settles down a se
cond later – but my daughter doesn’t. As always, she grabs the iPad, and I go on a little dance with her via the magic of Face Time. I’m half-dizzy by the time she has settled down on the bed, lying on her side.
I don’t mind.
It’s just nice to see her face. This hockey trip to Europe is the longest we’ve ever been apart. I know it’s only seven days, but it feels like seven months – at least to me.
“Hey, daddy!” Tilly says.
She’s still wearing her sports clothes – the striped green and purple bands of her exclusive preparatory school. I notice a streak of mud on her cheek, and I’m forced to hide a smile.
My daughter is one of the most mature eleven-year-olds I’ve ever met – but still, she’s only eleven years old. She’s just coming up on that treacherous age all girls are forced to encounter: a self-conscious time when the last thing they want is for their dad to point out they’ve been walking around for hours with mud on their face!
“What time is it over there?” I ask – even though I know exactly what time it is in England. I’ve been waiting like a hawk, ready to call the moment I knew she’d be back at the hotel.
Tilly glances somewhere off-screen. “Um, like, just past three in the afternoon,” she says. She stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. “I’m still not used to the time zone over here.”
“Are you sleeping okay?” I asked anxiously. “You know what I’ve told you –”
Tilly cracks a long-suffering smile, and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, daddy, I know. Don’t use my iPad before bed, turn off the lights… It’s okay, I’ve been reading.”
I fake a cough, but mainly because my throat’s closing up with emotion. Tilly’s about the most perfect kid that any dad could ask for. Even – no, especially – after everything we’ve been through. I’m only a month shy of my thirtieth birthday – and Tilly’s only a couple of months off her twelfth. That should tell you everything you need to know.
Tilly’s face creases, and her hand darts forward to block out the camera. “Dad –? You still there? Hold on, I think maybe the Internet’s –”
“No,” I croak. I clear my throat. “I think it’s all okay now.”
Tilly frowns, and. “You weren’t tearing up on me, were you daddy?”
I tap my chest with mock-indignation. “Me? Nah, you know I don’t cry. Must’ve been the connection…”
More eye rolling. “Sure thing: don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone; it’s our little secret.”
“How is England, anyway, Tills?” I ask. “Where are you right now, is it Manchester?”
Tilly corrects me. “It’s Man-chester, silly, not Manchester.”
“Tomato, tomato,” I grin, saying both words exactly the same. “All sounds the same to me. But if you’re done making fun of me –?”
“I’m not making fun!” Tilly protests. “Okay, maybe just a little bit…” She winks, but on her little face it’s more of a blink.
“Still can’t wink, huh?” I grin. “Guess your daddy’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve.”
“I can too wink,” Tilly frowns. She tries again. And again, both her eyes scrunch shut.
“That’s just twitching,” I say. “Anyway, I asked you how Man-chester was. Stop beating around the bush!”
Tilly looks away, perhaps out of the window in her hotel room. She scrunches up her nose. “The people are nice,” she allows. “But it hasn’t stopped raining since we got here! I don’t know how they manage like this. They should start growing fins!”
“Fins?”
“You know,” Tilly giggles. “Like fish.”
I laugh along with my daughter, and then go quiet.
“Daddy; are you okay? You’re not going to start crying on me again, are you?”
“I told you already kiddo, daddy doesn’t cry.”
Tilly opens her eyes wide. I stifle a grin. It’s the exact look I get on my face when – infrequently – I tell her off. “I thought we didn’t lie to each other, huh?”
I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay – you got me. Listen, Tills, there’s –There’s something I need to tell you.”
My throat closes up again.
I know it’s not fair to me to be putting issues this heavy on my daughter’s shoulders. But I made a promise to her a long time ago – to treat her like an adult, and I’m going to keep it. There are some things, loads of things, I keep from her. Things Tilly doesn’t need to know.
But unfortunately, Penny isn’t one of those subjects. Since Tilly’s going to return to New York in a couple of days, my new wife is definitely “need to know” – and Tilly needs to know.
“Daddy?”
“Sorry.”
“What is it?”
“Promise you won’t get mad?” I say. I feel like the kid, right now, not Tilly!
Tilly nods.
“There’s going to be someone here when you get back: at the apartment.”
“You mean,” Tilly says, scrunching her nose, “like a new chef, or something? What happened to Francisco?”
I shake my head. “No, not like a new chef. Don’t worry, Frankie’s not going anywhere.”
“Good. Then what?”
I tip my head back and let out a small, frustrated sigh. I know what it sounds like – that I’m dragging the revelation out, but I simply can’t find the words. I’m coming up against a wall of resistance. I don’t want to see the look on my daughter’s face when I tell her I’m shacking up with a girl only eight years older than she is!
Tilly has always looked up to me, loved me like a brother as well as a father. I don’t want to see judgment written on her innocent face.
I hear a bustling noise on the other end of the line: then a knocking; next the faint sound of a woman’s voice. Tilly looks away again, and the camera fills up with a view of her neck.
“Daddy, Mrs. Noble just called, we’ve got to go to dinner, and I need to shower, and –.”
I smile sadly and blow my daughter a kiss. She catches it, and then throws it right back. “It’s all fine, baby, this can wait. You do you.”
“Bye daddy,” Tilly says as she kills the video call. “I miss you.”
“I miss you more,” I whisper.
The television on the other side of the room goes black as the call ends. I’m lost in darkness – the window blinds block out every last scrap of light. I sink into the gray suede couch and cover my face with my hands. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Tilly. She’s got two days left in England, and after that she’ll get on a flight back home.
How am I supposed to tell her that she’s got a new mom?
A sound behind me startles me. I flinch and spin.
Penny clears her throat. “Hey, Charlie.”
I’m instantly rocked back on my heels. How much of that did she hear? I don’t know why, but I don’t want Penny to have heard that conversation. It’s almost as though I consider it an intrusion. For so long, this apartment was our space – Tilly’s and mine.
“How long have you been here?” I ask. I don’t like the sound of my voice – it comes out harsh and inquisitive.
“Not long,” Penny replies. She bites her lip. “Was that –”
“My daughter,” I growl.
Fuck, I shouldn’t take this out on Penny. It’s not her fault I got lost in my own thoughts. It’s not her fault that I was happy to go along with this marriage ruse when I could have shut it down: should have shut it down.
“She’s beautiful,” Penny says. She smiles with such a disarming honesty that it’s hard to stay angry with her.
That’s the thing about being a parent that I never understood before I had Tilly. It’s not just okay for you to love your kids; you feel a need to show them off every second of every day, because you made this thing, this perfect, precious, sweet little thing.
That’s the way it is for me, anyway.
I let out a sigh, and my shoulders relax. “She is,” I agree. “I don’t know who she takes after, because
it sure as hell isn’t me.”
Penny frowns. “What happened to her mom?”
I grimace, and Penny flinches. “You don’t have to tell me anything, not if you don’t want –”
I wave my hand. “No, it’s fine. I guess if we’re going to live together for the next year, I better tell you a little about me.”
I don’t know if I’m overthinking things, but I swear Penny closes her eyes when I say that. She sucks in a breath.
I shake my head. I’m probably reading too much into it; too much into her. Penny has that effect on me whenever she’s around: I can’t stop drinking in every inch of her skin; or studying her like she’s an exquisite painting in a gallery.
I slump back down on the couch and gesture for Penny to join me.
“I had Tilly young,” I say. “But I guess you already figured that.”
Penny curls up on her legs, but keeps a short distance between us. I can’t rid myself of the lingering suspicion that something’s on her mind. But now that I’ve started talking, I don’t want to stop. I’m not the kind of guy who does therapy – but I’m sure there’s a whole river of shit in my mind just waiting for an excuse to escape.
“Yeah.”
“How much do you know about me?” I ask. I narrow my eyes and study Penny’s reaction.
Penny’s voice jumps an entire range of octaves. “About you? What do you mean?”
I smile to put her at ease. I realize how I must be coming across – almost like I’m pumping her for information. That’s not what I want – nothing could be further from the truth.
I want Penny to understand why I’m the way I am: intensely private, ambitious, and protective over my daughter: maybe too protective. So protective that marrying a woman I’ve never met to save Tilly from CPS’s clutches made sense at the time.
“Relax,” I smile. “You ever read an interview with me? In Time Magazine or the New York Times?”
Penny shakes her head. Her face is still drawn and tense. “No,” she admits.
“That’s because there aren’t any,” I reply. “I like it that way. I don’t see why people out there need to know anything about my life. I’m just a guy – a guy who works extremely hard, and a guy who’s been very, very lucky.”