Tiptoeing quickly through my apartment, I checked the locks on the front door and wiggled the knob. Everything was secure, thank God. "Alright, have it your way. This has been fun, but—"
The man spoke up, his satisfied smirk evident in his gravelly voice. "You don't know anything about your father or his death. Up until now, you haven't given a shit, but that needs to change. Tonight. Unless you want to be stuck in the loop you’re in for the rest of your life. Your body will only get you so far.”
Whoa.
His words were a powerful fist right to the center of my chest. I slumped against the white-painted steel door behind me, trying to gather my bearings.
If this guy hadn’t crossed the line before, he had just officially slithered across.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” I spat out. Infuriated, I crossed an arm under my breasts to stop the waves of red anger crashing through me. "Obviously, you don’t know a damn thing about me.”
If he knew me, truly knew me, he’d realize I thought of my father each time I passed the last photo I had of us together—the picture Dad’s driver had taken of us at the Empire State Building when I was eight. He’d know that I purposely avoided going to Los Angeles with my best friend every time she suggested it because it brought back memories and regrets that shattered me.
No, he didn’t know me, and for this man to accuse me of feeling any different pissed me off.
“Then why haven’t you ever looked into your father’s passing?” he challenged.
I scowled. "Are you a reporter?” My question earned an indignant snort from my caller, but I continued, “Is that what this is? Because if you are, here's a story for you: Of course, I gave a shit about my father’s death.” My eyes flashed to the muted celebrity interview on the flat screen TV. “You just won't ever see me in the news battling over an inheritance he didn't want me to have. So, now that I’ve gotten that out there for you ... I think I deserve to know who you are before I hang up on your ass," I sneered.
"I'm not a reporter, but I’m also not giving you a name.”
“Look, asshole—”
“But, since you mentioned the money, do you really think your dad left you with nothing? Or is that something you convinced yourself of, because you became too comfortable with putting your past behind you, and you’re just too lazy to go digging around for answers?"
I flinched. Deflated, I slid my back down the door until my butt hit the plush Berber carpet, the overwhelming aroma of linen-scented carpet powder rushing up my nostrils. "My father died of a heart attack, and he left everything to his wife," I whispered, nodding, attempting to assure myself all over again. When I was younger, I was bitter about my dad’s decision to name his wife his sole heir. At one time, my mother had been his wife too. I was his only child. Still, none of that had mattered.
When I stopped worrying about the hand I was dealt, I’d found equanimity —at least somewhat. I was comfortable.
But now, I was experiencing all those old emotions—doubts I hadn’t let plague me since I was a teenager were brought to the surface. It stung, and I knew I should hang up. Disconnect the call and immediately contact the phone company to change my number. For some reason, though, I couldn’t.
I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead. "He did leave everything to Margaret, right?"
"Figure out the truth, Gemma. Figure out what happened before and after he died." At the sound of me opening my mouth to ask more questions, my ominous caller shut me down. "Good luck."
"If this isn't a joke, why don't you just tell me what the truth is?” I questioned brokenly, squeezing my eyes shut, quelling the tears of frustration threatening to spill out. "Why don't you stop insulting me for five seconds about what I didn't do and—"
The phone buzzed against the side of my face, and I forced in a breath that crushed my ribcage. He had hung up on me. He had called me to rile me up only to cut the call short on his terms. An animalistic growl tore from the back of my throat.
"What the—" Anxiety bubbled up from my stomach to settle in the back of my throat, choking my words. Dropping the phone on the carpet beside me, I pressed my fist against my mouth and bit down on one of my knuckles. It was the only thing I could do to hold back the inevitable scream. And the vomit.
What the hell just happened?
I scrubbed my hands back and forth over my face before pushing my hair away from my flushed cheeks, tucking the straight locks behind my ears. Staring across the room and letting the tears flood my vision and fall unchecked, I started the messy process of trying to decipher the cryptic words from the stranger’s phone call.
He’d claimed there was more behind my father's death. And then he’d insinuated that I shouldn’t be so sure that my dad, with all his money and power, had left me with nothing. Whether the call was a joke or not, I felt like the scabs had been ripped right off old wounds, exposing all my vulnerabilities to the world.
Releasing a tremulous breath that seemed to take some of the pressure off my chest, I focused on the watercolor painting depicting one of my favorite movie kisses. Thanks to my tears, Buttercup and Westley had morphed into something unrecognizable. I ran the back of my hand over my eyes. Hobbling to my feet, I fisted my hands and counted to ten. I was never much of a crier—emotional, yes, but never one to sob—yet here I was giving a man I didn’t know the power to render me speechless.
"Pull yourself together," I admonished myself as I crept down the narrow hall to the bathroom. I splashed a handful of cold water onto my face and laid my palms to my cheeks. My skin was still on fire. "It had to be a joke.”
I returned to my living room, powering off the TV as soon as I saw the headline about Margaret Emerson hobnobbing with an infamous editor at a fashion show in New York. Normally, I wouldn’t let it bother me too much. Tonight, however, I couldn’t handle looking at my former stepmother’s smug expression after having my brain thoroughly bent over and screwed.
“Oh, déjà vu, you nasty bitch,” I muttered as I threw the remote toward my couch. It landed right side up on the sable brown knit throw blanket I’d bought at Pottery Barn a couple months ago. Crossing the room, I swooped up my phone from where I had left it by the front door, and then, just for good measure, I checked the locks once more.
As I padded toward the bathroom to take a hot bath to calm my nerves, I couldn't resist taking a peek at my call history. I shook my head in disbelief. The idiot hadn't blocked his number. There it was, nine-digits right in front of me, practically begging to be called.
Tapping the green icon in the center of my screen, I temporarily gave up on the bath and slammed down on the couch. "I'll figure out the truth," I gloated, "I'll figure out the—"
"Thank you for calling Emerson & Taylor, this is Claire. How may I direct your call?" a saccharine-sweet, female voice chirped.
I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn't quite figure out what to say over my sudden shortness of breath and the icy cold fingers of shock stroking my spine. Finally, perhaps perturbed by my silence, the receptionist introduced herself again.
“Emerson & Taylor, Claire speaking. Can I help you?”
"I-I'm so sorry.” There was the stuttering again. “Wrong number,” I managed, disconnecting the call before she could get another word in.
I folded my arms over my stomach, leaning forward. It did nothing to help the harsh churning, but thankfully, there were no tears this time. Maybe I was too numb for that, though.