2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
D eclan
It’s a strange little town.
I observe it as I drive down a winding back road, lined by red oak and maple. The leaves are turning already, fluttering down, and reflecting the orange haze of the sunset. A poetic man might enjoy the soothing ambience and claim that the pinkish-red hue adds a romantic flair to the early evening air.
I’m not a poetic man.
All I see are trees, trees, and more trees.
I left the town square (and the Marriott) behind about an hour ago, and there’s probably no one around for miles. My destination, a hotel that was a relic from a century ago, sits another ten-minute drive away into the woodsy area. It’s probably covered entirely by thickets now. I may not even recognize it. Dad didn't exactly give me a recent picture, only a vague description of the place and the GPS coordinates.
The coordinates came in handy because apparently this town is inconsistent with its street signs.
Five minutes later, the woods taper out and the road bleeds onto a large clearing of grass, beyond which there is a giant lake, stretching as far as the eye can see. I wonder if it’s the same lake that wrapped around the tiki bar I was just in, a lake that practically surrounds the town.
Thinking about the tiki bar inevitably brings to mind the sassy, curvy waitress who kicked me out of the place and then spilled food on me.
I finally allow a smirk to spread out across my lips.
I’m not used to people being so antagonistic to me, much less women. Typically, I command sufficient respect anywhere I go. Enough so that most people are dying to kiss my ass. Some of it is because of who I am. Most of it is because of the car I drive, how I dress, and who they perceive that I am.
Either way, it leads to the same result. A lot more sycophants than friends, and a lot of people willing to jump through hoops to meet my every demand.
But not her.
The first time I ordered the burger to be remade, it was simply because it was awfully dry. And the time after that, the burger was still disgusting. I could have walked out. But I ordered again just to see the expression flash across her face.
She didn't hide her irritation very well. And it was amusing because very few people get openly irritated with me anymore.
I wondered how many times she would agree to remake the burger while her eyes flashed daggers at me. I wondered if her perfunctory smile would still be there each time, or if it would bleed into a look of full frustration. I wondered if she would slap me.
But I didn't expect her to tell me to go fuck off in so polite a manner. That's small-town courtesy for you, I suppose.
I also didn’t expect food to be thrown on me but I'm ninety percent sure that was an accident.
An accident that almost led to an even bigger disaster.
Because when I was staring down at her blue eyes, rimmed with dark lashes and those cupid’s bow lips, every censure fled my tongue. And I was no longer thinking about teasing, or even scolding her.
I was thinking about tasting those lips.
I push the thought out of my head as I pull into a cobblestone pavement overgrown with weeds.
"You have reached your destination," the GPS announces.
"Amazing," I murmur in response. I hope good old Siri can sense my sarcasm because the building I’m looking at is anything but amazing.
It’s a twelfth-century brick mansion spanning across several acres of land, with a wooden detached shed behind it. From afar, the buildings look worn and torn. The wood is bleached by the sun and the paint is washed off the brick. It used to be pink, I guess, but it's now mixed with white mold and dark charred particles that are concentrated at the bottom.
As I close in, the view gets even worse. The interior is made almost entirely of wood, and the stairs creak as I climb onto the patio. Each floor panel I step on shakes a little and would have probably given way if I were a little heavier, and a little slower.
As I draw back the curtain hanging over the large front entrance, dust particles rush into my nose, leading to a coughing fit. The front door itself is hanging off its hinges, which is probably why there is a curtain. Dirty curtains hang over the windows too, but even in the semi-darkness, I note the vastness of the first floor.
This place must have been something back in the day.
My own footsteps echo as I move to the largest window in the room. Then, I cover my nose and draw back another curtain, allowing light to wash into the space. Now I see the winding staircase in the middle of the room leading upstairs. I also see that some of the walls at the back have been broken down and covered by wooden panels. In fact, cracks appear in just about every wall, some of them extending into the foundation of the building.
A drop of liquid lands in front of me.
I stare up at the ceiling and notice that there are holes in it. The roof creaks when a bird lands on it, which tells me it’s not very solid either.
On second thought, I suppose this building is amazing in its own way—in that it is still standing.The phone rings, shattering through the eerie silence. I slide it out of my pocket and put it to my ear. "Hello."
"Are you there yet?" My father’s tone is forceful and no-nonsense. It's the voice that used to scare me straight as a little boy, but now it doesn’t phase me.
"Yes," I answer, stepping further into the room. Creak. Creak. Creak.
"And? How do you find the place? What do you think?"
"I’m thinking I want some of whatever you were smoking when you decided to buy it."
Dad coughs like he’s not sure whether he wants to tell me off or laugh at the joke.
"It’s a dump, Dad," I say. "Worse than that, it’s a dump that you paid nearly half a billion dollars for. And it will probably require at least three million to get it to any sort of working condition."
Dad sighs. "I was afraid that would be the case. Well, I’ll just increase the amount I sell it for."
"Landing isn’t going to buy the hotel once he sees the state it’s in," I say. "Especially once he sees the town. It has a four-figure population, and they have two gas stations. It’s not an ideal tourist destination."
"I disagree," he says. "The town may not look like much, but I remember it being a hot tourist spot back when I was younger. Not to mention that they sold us on the experiences."
"What experiences? The one bar in town where they spill food on you? Or the sketchy gas station where you can also buy hot dogs?"
"You got food spilled on you?"
"I don’t want to talk about it."
Dad sighs. "Alright. Look, the hotel has a lot of blooming history. A hundred years’ worth. Royalty and a bunch of Old Hollywood celebrities have stayed there at different points in time. Not to mention the reported history of paranormal activities. It’s called the Grand Pearl Hotel for a reason because of the mystical —"
"Yeah, yeah you’ve told me the story," I say, already tired of hearing it. My dad can go on about history all he wants, but I know the true reason he bought the damn place. It's where he met my mother. Maybe that’s why he’s so attached to it. The old man has gotten a lot more sentimental with age.
"All that hocus pocus stuff might have worked back in your time, but we have the internet now. No one believes in that shit anymore." At the very least, no one worth their money would pay for a rundown hotel in a podunk town in the middle of nowhere. "Didn't you tell me the hotel went out of business years ago? I think it was for good reason?"
"Well, their business struggled due to the missing Pink Pearl."
"Pink what?"
He sighs. "You didn't read the brief I sent you on the history of the hotel, did you?"
"Skimmed it," I murmur. I was busy at the time and also too furious at the fact that he was making me take on this nothing of a project.
There are skyrises to be built in New York.
Luxury apartments to be built in Miami.
And a billion other meaningful work things I could be doing.
But no. Instead, I'm in this tiny lake town working on an old, rundown hotel.
The only reason I agreed to this was because Dad promised to step down as CEO if I completed the task.
Which means I will finally be able to take over the family company. No more bullshit projects for me.
"The area is known for a rare gem called Rainbow Pearl," Dad explains. "These are pearls found only in the town’s lakes. They give off a rainbow iridescence when held up to the sunlight. The rarest of them is the Pink Pearl."
"That’s why it's called the Pink Hotel?" That's what the guy at the gas station called it when I asked for directions to the Grand Pearl Hotel.
"Yeah," Dad continues. "The Pink Pearl is an extremely rare gem. One is found every hundred years or so, according to lore. At the time, the only known Pink Pearl was in the hotel, in a display. And then one night, it went missing during a ball. I don’t exactly recall the story, but I think it was stolen. They never caught the culprit."
"Was that during the fire?"
"You know about the fire?" Dad asks.
"No, but I could see the charcoal licking the brick from the ground up and assume there was a fire in the building."
"Well, the fire was many years after. The Pink Hotel officially went out of business due to the fire. That was the final nail in the coffin." Dad says.
"Hmmm, a theft and then a fire. Seems to be an unlucky hotel."
"Luck is what you make of it," Dad says. "And I have a good feeling about this venture. Landing does too. If we can revive the hotel and restore it to its former glory, I know we can make a lot of money here."
"Right," I say. I still have my doubts, but I know they won't be enough to convince my dad not to do this. The old man is very stubborn when he has a hunch about something.
At least this purchase was made with his private funds and not company funds, so he'll have to bear the loss alone. I just need to do my job and then get out.
After concluding the conversation with my dad, I continue my exploration of the first floor of the hotel. The furniture has been emptied out, allowing me to move freely. At the end of a hallway, I happen upon what looks to be a closet. The wood is dusty and moth-eaten, but the lock on it appears to be brand new.
Frowning, I pull it open.
The only thing in there is a gardening glove, lying on the floor.
I pick it up, noting that it's damp, with a giant gash and a dry, dark red stain that looks suspiciously like blood.
Before I can muse much longer, the phone rings again, and I answer it without looking at the caller ID.
"Yes."
"Mr. Tudor? It's Sandy."
My daughter's babysitter's voice sounds panicked, so I'm immediately on alert. I straighten, forgetting all about the glove. "What is it, Sandy?"
"It's Amelia, sir. I came out of the bathroom, and she was gone. Your daughter is missing."