Chapter 15 Ophelia
OPHELIA
We drive to Sinistral that afternoon. Silas holds my hand as we walk into the lobby of the hotel.
“I hate this fucking place,” he mutters.
“Me too.” The memory of what happened after the Foxes barged into that small room and found Silas and I together overshadows what was a beautiful moment. What happened after they hauled Silas away in handcuffs darkens all the good moments. I wonder if that will always be the case.
Silas walks up to the concierge desk and greets the woman standing behind it. “Call up to the penthouse and let Carlisle-Bent know Ophelia Cruz, formerly Hart, is here to see him.”
She looks from him to me and back. I wonder if she was here the night he was arrested.
I set my hand over top of Silas’s forearm. “Please,” I add, smiling.
“Of course,” she says. Her smile is tight, but she picks up the phone to call my grandfather. A moment later, she puts the phone down and signals the porter over. She hands him a key. “Take Ms. Hart and—”
“It’s Mrs. Cruz,” Silas corrects.
“Of course,” she stammers. “Please take Mrs. Cruz and her companion—”
“Husband,” Silas interrupts again.
I clear my throat and give him a look. He shrugs his shoulders.
“Her husband up to the penthouse.” She turns to us. “Mr. Carlisle-Bent was expecting you.”
“I’m sure he was,” Silas mutters, letting me know how little he likes this as we follow the porter to the elevator and take the familiar ride up.
Silas gives my hand a squeeze as the doors slide open onto the penthouse, and before we even step off the elevator, I see him. My grandfather. He’s there waiting for us—for me, I guess—his gaze fixed and anxious.
Silas keeps hold of my hand, and we step into the suite. The doors close behind us.
There is a smell in the room, something sickly that wasn’t here before when Silas occupied the suite. It’s barely masked by the odor of cigarette smoke. I take it in, processing the whole strange scene.
Two men in white nurses’ uniforms are working at the kitchen counter. A woman in a similar uniform is seated at the table typing something into an iPad.
Chandler Carlisle-Bent is leaning against the far wall.
I see the remnants of a bruise on his forehead.
He is holding a cigarette in his hand. It’s not lit, and I realize it’s not real when he brings it to his mouth to draw on it and the tip lights up.
He watches me, his eyes boring into me with that same look inside them as I saw in the limo. Something unkind.
No. More than that.
Something malevolent.
I shudder, and he grins.
Silas’s hand tightens on mine, and I feel aggression build inside him, tension coiling his muscles. I look up at him, shake my head subtly. He draws me closer and glares at Chandler.
I turn my attention to the man I came to see.
Gordon Carlisle-Bent, my grandfather, is seated in a wheelchair in the center of the room. An oxygen tank hangs off the back of the chair, and a mask is hooked over one armrest.
He’s tall. I can see that even while he’s seated.
He’s dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that’s a little too big on his frame.
I wonder if he used to fill it out. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, and he’s wearing a gold wedding band.
He has wisps of dark gray hair sticking straight up all over his head, and his skin is marked by age.
His face is clean shaven and he’s not quite smiling.
He looks inquisitive. His eyes are a pale shade of blue, bright, and alert on me.
He raises his hand and one of the male nurses rushes over.
“Help me stand,” my grandfather says.
I press myself against Silas, who squeezes my hand.
The nurse fumbles, not working quickly enough apparently because my grandfather mutters a curse. “Just get my feet off these stupid things! Is it too much to ask for that little bit of competence?”
“Almost there, sir,” the man says and bends to set my grandfather’s feet on the floor before helping him to stand. I notice his expensive shoes are polished to a high shine.
“Well,” he says finally, and I’m right. He’s tall, taller than Chandler, and almost comes up to Silas’s height.
“Ophelia,” he says like he’s just said the name for the first time ever in his life.
“Claire’s girl.” He walks toward us, never taking his eyes from me, searching my face.
I wonder if he’s looking for signs of his daughter in me.
“You’ll scare the girl, old man,” Chandler says from his place at the wall.
“Shut up, boy.” My grandfather turns to look at Chandler. “In fact, get out. Our business is finished.”
I’m surprised when Chandler tucks that stupid fake cigarette into his pocket and does as he’s told. He gives me a hateful glance before moving past Silas and I and calling the elevator. No one speaks until he’s gone.
“I’d prefer he used the balcony and made a final exit, but no such luck,” my grandfather says, making Silas and I glance at each other, surprised.
That sickly smell, it’s medicine, covering or covered by a layer of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.
“You look like her.” He finally says, then snaps his fingers.
The nurse who helped him out of the chair helps him back in and puts an oxygen mask to his mouth and nose.
My grandfather holds it with shaking fingers and draws deeply.
I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my own breath.
“Bring my granddaughter and her…” he pauses, raising his eyebrows at Silas.
“Husband,” he fills in.
“Husband then. Fox’s boy?”
I look at Silas to see his jaw tighten. I wonder if my grandfather sees the resemblance or if Sly had told him Ethan and I were going to be married and he thinks Silas is Ethan.
Silas nods tightly.
“Not the right one, though,” the old man says with a wide smile.
He then begins to cough and has to breathe from the oxygen mask again.
“Get us a drink,” he tells the nurse once he’s recovered.
“She looks like she needs one. You two. Sit.” He points to the couch as the nurse rolls him into the living room.
Silas and I exchange a look, and when one of the nurses asks what we’d like, Silas requests whiskey for both of us. It’s early but if I’ve ever needed a whiskey, it’s now, so I take it.
I notice they bring a very small one to my grandfather who looks inside the glass and gives the nurse a hateful glance. It’s kind of funny because it’s a look a two-year-old might give his mom when he’s expecting candy and gets handed broccoli.
“I hardly think an absence of whiskey will lengthen what is left of my life. Hell, maybe the opposite. If you pour heavy, maybe you’ll hasten my demise and get rid of me once and for all. I’d think you’d want that. Now get me a proper glass.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, bring me a goddamned cigarette!”
“Mr. Carlisle-Bent, you know I can’t—”
“I’m kidding. Christ. Can’t kid anymore. No one can take a goddamned joke these days.”
The man hurries off to do as he’s told, and Silas snorts.
My grandfather turns to him. “A sense of humor. Good. Now.” He looks at me again.
“Ophelia. I am very happy to finally meet you. For a very long time I wasn’t sure if you were even alive.
If Claire… Well.” He shifts his gaze over my shoulder, and I see sadness in his watery eyes.
I’m not sure why it surprises me. He loved her.
I see that much. “Did you know your mother?” he asks.
I shake my head. “She died when I was just a year old. I don’t remember her.”
“That is a shame. She was a lovely girl.” He looks off in the distance and a sad shine comes over his eyes. “A girl with a glass heart.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She never had a chance. Not when the rest of the world is made of stone.” He shifts his gaze from me to Silas.
“Girls with glass hearts don’t belong in this world.
If she’s anything like my Claire, and I venture to say from the look in her eyes that she is, she’ll shatter if you’re not careful with her. ”
Silas’s eyes narrow, not quite in confusion but possibly understanding.
The old man returns his attention to me and stares openly. “My goodness. It is difficult to look at you. I didn’t know it would be. I’ve seen photographs, of course, but only recently. How is Horatio?” he asks, and I don’t sense animosity.
In fact, I’d say the way he spoke with Chandler was more hateful than the way he asks this question about my father, the man who took his daughter away—who kept his granddaughter from him.
“He’s in prison.”
“I know that. I heard what happened there, too. He’ll need to be careful. Sitting duck in there.”
“Sitting duck?” I ask.
“A bird in a cage is easy prey.” They bring my grandfather his whiskey. He looks inside the glass, nods and takes it. They also give him an unlit cigarette.
“You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?” Silas asks.
“Silas.” I shake my head at him.
“It’s a fair question,” my grandfather says. “And I’ve always appreciated directness. But no, it wasn’t me. He has enemies enough. And what he did for my daughter, well, I learned that too late of course, but I remember.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Silas clears his throat, and my grandfather glances at him. I do too, but Silas keeps his eyes on the old man.
“Nothing, nothing that matters,” my grandfather says.
“How long do you plan on staying in Sinistral, Mr. Carlisle-Bent?” Silas asks.
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?”
“Getting to know my granddaughter. Isn’t that obvious?” He turns back to me and smiles. “Now, I assume you have questions. You should ask them. I’m not long for this life, after all. Let’s not waste more time, Ophelia.”
“Okay. I will. If you promise to tell me the truth.”
He chuckles, drinks his whiskey, and holds the unlit cigarette between his two fingers. “You’ve grown up overprotected. Of course you have.”
“Why do you say that?”