15. Henry
15
HENRY
“What are you looking at?” Lizzy asks, flicking me with the end of her scarf.
I shove my phone in my pocket and flick her back, though my scarf does little damage. Hers has got those weird tassel things on the end. “Nothing.”
I can’t tell her. Lizzy nearly knocked my lights out when I told her Amelie and I were done. She doesn’t know the reason, though—I never told her.
Mainly because I still don’t know the reason.
Liz sighs. “Well, you ought to relish in it, because your fun won’t last long.”
She’s not wrong. Every Thursday night, our parents—who despise each other, if that’s any shock—make us come to dinner at their house. It’s possibly the worst night of my week, and though I can’t escape it, I always try. I’ve only gotten out of it once, and that was because I had pneumonia. So, not often.
“I still want to know what you were looking at,” Lizzy says, dodging someone who nearly knocks into her. “It’s not like you to be smiling at your phone. Who’s on the other side of it?”
“It was a cat video,” I deadpan. “The one you sent me last night.”
She gasps. “Of the cat on the horse? How do they do that? He’s just a cat! He doesn’t have a butt to sit on.”
“I have no idea,” I say. I did not watch said video, but I’m not about to say I’m texting—and setting up another meeting with—the girl who is currently tormenting me. That’s actually the last thing I’d admit to. There are a hundred different lies I’d go through first.
But that voice message…it’s been on my mind since I heard it. And no, I haven’t played it more than once. That would be weird. I definitely have not done that.
“What color was the cat?” Liz asks.
I blink. Look over at her. “What?”
“What color was the cat in the video?”
Great.
“Orange,” I say nonchalantly. That’s a cat color. That could totally be the correct one.
“Hm,” she says. “And the horse?”
“…White?”
“Saddle color?”
“Brown.”
“ AHA !” She points an accusing finger at me. “There was no saddle. You didn’t even watch the video. You never watch them.”
“I do,” I say, which is true. I just didn’t watch this one. “They give me a good laugh.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. What were you grinning at?”
I keep walking. “Nothing.”
“Hen.”
“Really, Liz. Nothing. Just a stupid text from a friend.”
She huffs, and I know she isn’t buying a word. I text my acquaintances about as frequently as she listens to our dad, but she shockingly doesn’t press for an answer.
We inevitably make it to our parent’s house, and I almost consider faking some illness to get out of this. Liz can sense my ideas, though. She grabs my arm and drags me to the porch, ringing the doorbell with her free hand. “You’re not ditching me tonight.”
“I just assumed you’d join.”
She shakes her head. “No. I miss Mom, and between you and me, I think she might gift me something tonight. She’s been asking me if I prefer gold or silver.”
I laugh. Mom doesn’t favor Lizzy over me, not the same way Dad does, but she certainly loves spoiling her. I think it’s because Liz accepts it. I don’t like gifts, but Lizzy? She’d give anything to be showered by presents twenty-four seven.
The door opens, and Mom stands before us, a pristine apron tied around her waist. She smiles and hugs Liz and I at the same time, pulling one of us into each arm.
“My babies,” she says wistfully, taking one of each of our hands. “Come inside.”
“You have to move over,” Liz says.
“Oh!” Mom says as if she forgot. She steps aside, still holding my hand as we walk through the door.
It’s warm in this house. Much too warm, which means Mom has had the oven on all day. The air smells like chicken and spices, so I’m guessing she’s made the soup we like. I spot a loaf of homemade bread on the table and know I’m correct.
Mom squeezes my hand once before dropping it. “Your dad is upstairs, Henry. I think he wants to see you. Says he has something to tell you.”
I stiffen up. “Do you know what it is?”
She shakes her head, causing grayed hair to fall into her eyes. Mine does that, too—anytime I move my head, a piece of my hair falls right between my eyebrows. It’s the most irritating thing in the world, but I like sharing something with her. “Not a clue,” she says. “Go deal with it before dinner, please. I’ve got something for Elizabeth that I want to show her in the meantime.”
Liz squeals and follows Mom to her bedroom. She throws a glance over her shoulder and mouths ‘ told you’ before disappearing around the corner.
I’d rather saw my hand off than find my Dad right now.
Slowly, I climb the stairs, hoping that if I wait long enough, the oven timer will go off. Or maybe a stampede of elephants will take me out. Anything to keep distance between me and him.
The house itself does little to ease my anxiety. Most people seem to find their childhood home comforting, but I find it the opposite. It’s not as though I had a bad childhood—in fact, I’m quite grateful for my parents and how they raised Lizzy and me. But that doesn’t mean I have to like this house. Doesn’t mean I have to trust my dad, or who he’s turned into since I left my place under this roof.
I pass my old bedroom and hold my breath as I open my dad’s office door. He’s writing furiously in a checking register, glasses on his head rather than his face. The daylight is long gone, and the only light in here is a nearly burnt-out lamp.
“Henry,” he says, voice formal as ever. “Sit down.”
“Dinner is almost ready.” I have no idea if that’s true. “Will this take long? I have a feeling that Mom and Liz?—”
“Your mom and Elizabeth will be fine.” He motions to the chair in front of his desk. Even his home office is set up for business affairs. “Sit.”
I take a seat and kick at the carpet. I’m sure I know what this is about—he’s realized my piece is gone by now, that Amelie took it. I’m stunned it’s taken him this long, but I almost wish it had taken him longer. What do I even say?
He doesn’t give me time to think about it. Dad caps his pen and sighs, then looks at me over his glasses. “I’m pushing the date of the auction back.”
A breath of relief escapes me before I can catch it. “That’s great ?—”
“But.” He leans back in his seat. Looks at the ceiling. “That doesn’t mean you are off the hook on looking for the thing. I’ve got an idea, and I think you’ll take a chance on it.”
Translation: I’m going to hate this, but I’ll end up doing it anyway.
“Okay,” I say numbly. “What is it?”
“I think you need to find Amelie.” He expels a breath. “You need to make her trust you again, then use that closeness to get proof of her work.”
My mouth falls open. “What do you mean? I don’t have time for that.”
“You don’t have time to catch a criminal?” He laughs dryly. “Henry, looking for your piece can’t be taking up your time, especially since you haven’t found it.”
Yes, well, I’m getting help from the girl you want me to narc on, so it sounds like a bad idea.
“I’m doing what I can,” I say, my voice a little firmer than intended. “You gave me very little to work with. I’m using what I have.”
“You’re doing fine,” he says, contrasting what he implied just moments ago. “It’ll be fine. But you need to hear me out on this.”
I won’t. But I will listen and find out what he wants, only because I’m curious.
“What could I possibly help you with?”
Dad leans even further back in his chair and takes a deep breath, making his tie strain around his neck. “Bring her with you to the auction.”
No. No. Why did I let him talk? I should’ve just left. He wouldn’t have made a scene with mom in the house; I could’ve bolted downstairs and joined them at the dinner table.
“I don’t understand,” I say coolly, “but I’m not doing that.”
“Make her trust you again. It’ll be easy.” He’s not listening to me anymore. I don’t think he ever was. “By the time the auction rolls around, you’ll have enough proof to get her caught. This could work, Henry, and it could work well. You just have to help me.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, stare at the wall. I can’t do it. I should be able to, though it’s obvious that I’m not the most logical when it comes to Amelie. But making her trust me, then turning her in? That would involve getting close to her. Betraying her. I don’t care what happened to us—I don’t care if she brings me and my career to the ground.
I won’t do it.
“You don’t have a very solid plan,” I say warily. “Even if that worked, why would she tell me everything? People trust on different levels.”
“She already knows you,” he says, and it makes me feel sick, him being the one to say it. “And it’s not about what she tells you; it’s about what you can find. Get in her apartment. Find evidence. Proof.”
Proof. Like the SD card in my pocket.
I swallow. “I’m not doing that.”
Dad’s eyes flare. “Henry?—”
“ No. Please.” I look away, because that is not a word my dad and I use often. It’s a clear show that I’m desperate, and I hope he doesn’t think any further into it. He can’t know what I’m doing. I can’t have him holding this against me. “I don’t want to do that.”
He presses his hands into his eyes, looking discouraged when he pulls them away. “I’m not having this argument tonight. Make a wise decision and don’t cause me any problems.”
I nod, hating the guilt that twists in my chest. I shouldn’t feel bad for defying him. He’s using me—that’s all he does. He uses my work for profit and gives me no control over my distribution. He gives me things and holds them over my head when I accept them. I haven’t been fully in charge of myself in years, all because I’m too scared to say no to him.
But I don’t know how to change it.
“Regardless of that,” Dad continues, “you’ll have a piece on display at the auction. Yes?”
“Yes,” I force out. “I’ll have something.”
“You’ll have the Ophelia .”
I take a breath, aware that I’m putting all my trust in Amelie. “I’ll have it.”
“Good.” Dad stands and shoves the checking register in his desk. I note the stack of torn envelopes in the corner, but as usual, I don’t mention them. “Let’s go eat, then.”
I follow him out of the office, hands shoved in my pockets. Mom and Liz are already at the kitchen table, poring over a box of rings. They clear the surface and set the dishware down. Mom brings the food to the table, and we pass the dishes around, wordlessly making our plates.
The meal isn’t awkward. It’s normal. Mom and Dad argue, Liz cracks jokes, and I sit quietly, wondering how to dig myself out of this situation.
I’m not even in it, not really. But I will be if my dad has his way.
And the memory card in my pocket will be the least of my problems.