Chapter 27 #2
“No, thank you,” I answered. Absolutely not. I just wanted to get this over with. When the housekeeper nodded and backed out
of the room, I resumed our conversation. “So, as I was saying, Harvard’s financial aid office needs you to sign this form
stating that you claim no financial responsibility for me.”
His head tilted to one side inquisitively. “Why would they need that?”
Ugh. “Guess they somehow got wind that you’re worth millions.
If you had financial responsibility for me, then I’d have to pay full tuition, room, and board because people who have money don’t need help.
As you know, the Malones are worth nothing.
So unless you want to cough up about $250,000 to finish paying for my education for the next three years, then you can sign this form. ”
He studied me quietly while absolute mayhem was going on inside my chest. If he didn’t say anything soon, I might bolt. Being
in the same room as my family’s own personal monster was not something I was well equipped to do.
Just when I thought he was going to drill me some more about Harvard, he smiled at me and shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”
I blinked. “Really?”
He held his arm out and gestured with his fingers. “Give it here. I don’t mind, really.”
I lifted out of my seat and reached to hand him the paper. “The sections you need to fill out are at the bottom—name, address,
social security . . .”
“Goodness, they want it all, don’t they?” He took the paper to a nearby desk, found a pen, and began scribbling on it. Then
he padded across the rug in his bare feet and handed it to me, withholding it when I reached. “This is really it? This is
why you came out here?”
I nodded. “It means a lot. I really appreciate it.”
He made a surprised noise in the back of his throat and dropped the paper into my hands.
Here is it, I thought, as a little joy peeked through my anxiety. My entire summer’s plans were wrecked over this. I could’ve lost everything.
Then again, if I hadn’t come home, I would’ve never reconnected with the Wags.
I wouldn’t have found Seb.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Lee,” I said, meaning it.
“Of course, it’s no problem. Least I can do to help out . . .”
He couldn’t say “my daughter.” That wasn’t a surprise.
“To help out you,” he finished. “What are you studying out there? Law?”
“God no. Art history.”
He laughed, and I felt embarrassed for a moment. “Oh, I’m sorry, sugar. I just didn’t expect it. You know, my wife likes art.
We’ve got a few nice pieces in the house. Let me show you, come on.”
I didn’t want to see them, I wanted to get the hell out of there. But as I folded up the signed paper, I felt some twinge
of responsibility to placate him. The least I could do, I supposed, and maybe it would give me the opportunity to quiz him
about why Pretty Paul had visited him out here last night.
I followed him back into the foyer, where he took me to a boring Ellsworth Kelly knockoff. “I think she paid around ten for
this one,” he said. “We had it appraised last year for fifteen.”
“It’s . . .”
“A good example of early-eighties minimalism—that’s what my wife says. I know nothing about art.” He smiled and gave me an
odd look that I couldn’t interpret. Then his face widened. “Oh! I’ve got an even better one you need to see, the crown jewel
of my wife’s collection. Real quick, you’ll be impressed, I promise. Up here.”
He headed to the staircase and jogged upstairs, but I didn’t want to follow. I just wanted to leave.
But I was curious to find out why Paul was here.
Reluctantly I looped my cross-body purse strap across my torso and climbed the stairs, taking out my phone halfway up to check
my messages. One from Seb an hour ago: Where are you?
And several missed calls from both him and Benny.
Crap. I should’ve told Seb where I was going and not just run out like that, but luckily everything worked out fine.
As soon as I got back to the Corvair, I’d phone Seb and tell him the whole thing.
“Down the hall, this way,” my father called back at me.
He was walking fast, and his mood was a little hyper. Maybe he was always like this. I followed him past palm trees and several
open bedroom doors to a room at the end of the hall.
“In here,” he motioned. “I just know you’re going to appreciate this . . .”
Cautious, I stepped into a bedroom with sparse contemporary furniture. Maybe a guest room, considering how soulless and clean
it was. The only good thing about it was a balcony on the back wall with French doors. The balcony overlooked the pool in
the backyard, and beyond it, Reeds Lake.
“Here it is,” my father said, standing in front of a textured beach landscape that looked as if it had been painted by someone
with double vision. Two suns. Two women lying on the sand. Two palm trees. “A Brazilian painter did it, he’s supposed to be
a big deal. What do you think?”
“Interesting brushwork. What’s the name of the artist?”
“Hmm, can’t remember . . .” He squinted at the messy signature in the corner of the painting. “Can never read these things,
can you? But I can look it up really fast. Do you mind, can I see your phone for just a sec?”
My phone? I still held it in my hand and wish I could’ve hidden it, especially the way my pulse was swishing rapidly inside my temples.
But he just reached out and took it out of my fingers like it was nothing. Like we were oh so close and borrowed phones all
day long.
“Hey—”
“Before we look up the artist, here’s a question for you,” he said, cutting me off.
A fresh layer of panic built up inside me when he smiled and held the phone away from me as if he were dangling a carrot.
“You hear about that gold bar that was found downtown?”
My heart raced inside my chest. I swallowed hard and asked, “Is that why Paul Vanderburg showed up here yesterday?”
“Paul Vanderburg? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”
Absolute liar. “Oh, really?”
He fisted my phone and held up both arms to sidle around me and move past the bed. “Just one sec . . .”
He was . . . leaving the room?
“Hold up. Where are you going with that?” I asked as he headed out the door, pocketing my phone. “Wait! What—”
I raced to the door, but he slammed it in my face.
The lock snicked.
“You just stay put for a little while,” he told me through the door. “I promise nothing will happen to you. But I need to
make some calls. Then we’ll talk again. Sorry, Paige, but I’ve got a feeling you’re keeping something from me.”
“Fuck you, you maniac! Let me out!” I rattled the handle, but it was no use. “You can’t do this!”
But I supposed he could whatever he wanted in his own house.
And what he wanted, by all appearances, was to kidnap his own daughter.