Chapter 54 Adi
Adi
Adi’s life was in shambles. He had spent the morning walking aimlessly around his house, feeling the velvet drapes, lounging in the Qing dynasty armchair, picking the Chihuly sculptures up from their pedestals. He was surrounded by millions of dollars’ worth of stuff, and all he saw was junk.
His mother was in prison. It would be months until her trial, and afterward, Adi expected her to be handed a life sentence.
The state had assigned him a social worker, who was dutifully trying to get ahold of his father, but so far, Victor Cunningham had been impossible to reach.
Somehow, this stung a thousand times worse than his own mother trying to kill him.
Surely his dad would come for Adi now that his mom was no longer in the picture.
And yet, nothing.
Adi had no interest in being shipped off to live with some distant relative, which left only a few options, as far as the social worker was concerned.
He could be set up with a foster family.
He could go to a home with other boys his age.
Or they could petition the court for a declaration of emancipation so that he would no longer be under the custody of either parent, which sounded a little bit like freedom.
It would take time, and there were a lot of legal matters to untangle.
Symphony’s home, her bank accounts, her belongings.
He didn’t want any of it. Not the stuff. Not the money. Not the baggage. He was tired of being trapped in this house, stifled, unable to breathe.
He needed to get out of here. Away from his mother and her narcissism. Her delusions. Her selfishness. Her inability to love anything but herself.
He was in the foyer, his hand on the doorknob, when he heard a crash from the kitchen.
Adi whirled around. The house had been silent as a grave all day.
Slamming cabinet doors. Shattering glass. The unmistakable rumble of the trash compactor.
Heart racing, Adi grabbed a nude marble statuette and held it aloft as he crept toward the kitchen. He nudged the door open with his toe, preparing to bash the intruder over the head.
A man stood with his back to Adi, pulling boxes out of a cupboard. He wore a perfectly tailored plaid suit—amethyst and gold.
The man turned, revealing a matching vest and bow tie, his black goatee peppered with silver.
Victor Cunningham tossed one of Symphony’s protein shake mixes into the garbage bin and smiled.
“Hello, son,” he said, pressing a finger onto a black envelope on the counter and pushing it in Adi’s direction. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
To be continued . . .