Chapter 21
B y the time we arrived back at the mansion, my leg was wrapped in a beige elastic bandage and a boot, allowing me to walk carefully. Sinclair had wanted to pick me up again to carry me, but I insisted on walking.
The treatment for my sprained ankle was ibuprofen, rest in bed with my foot elevated, and keeping my ankle in the bandage for a week. By then, my ankle might be tender but it would be mostly healed. Sinclair helped me up the stairs because I wasn’t used to walking with the boot and soon we were in my bedroom. “Where do you want me to put your other sneaker?”
“You can just put it in the closet.”
As I sat on the bed, he did as I’d asked. After he closed the closet door, he said, “Are you planning to unpack at some point?”
“I’m working on it. Did you notice there are a few things on hangers?”
He only gave me a short nod. “I’m afraid I won’t be as good as Edna at this. I can hire someone temporarily if you’d like.”
As much as Sinclair and Edna didn’t feel like family, at least they were no longer complete strangers. Considering I wasn’t dying, I was okay with not having a new person to tend to me for just a few days. “No, that’s okay.”
“All right. Well, let’s get that ankle elevated. Do you need help getting up on the bed?”
“No, I’m okay.” I had to admit to myself that it was sweet how doting and caring he was being—a far cry from the cold, furious beast he’d been my first few days here. It could have been guilt or maybe even fear that I might sue, but it didn’t feel like that at all. Instead…it felt like he actually cared.
And it put me at war with myself again. On the one hand, Sinclair felt like a hero, rescuing me at a time when I most needed it and making sure I had the best care money could buy. On the other hand, none of this would have happened had he not blamed me for the destruction of the simulation lab, giving me the choice of servitude. I had to remind myself that Sinclair Whittier was no friend and no hero.
But my heart couldn’t stop feeling a little warm about it.
After removing the boot, I set it on the nightstand before maneuvering to the middle of the bed. Then I pulled an extra pillow out from under the comforter so I was propped up a bit.
After going back into the closet, Sinclair returned with a fluffy pillow, one that had been on the top shelf next to a couple of blankets. “Are you comfortable?”
“Enough.”
“Raise your foot.” I did as asked and he slid the pillow under. “What can I bring you right now?”
“I would love a glass of water.”
“I’ll also bring an ice pack.”
After he left, I reached over for one of the books I’d brought up from the library, but I couldn’t focus on reading. Although they’d given me ibuprofen for the pain and swelling, it still hurt. Fortunately, elevating it had helped with the throbbing sensation that only intensified the discomfort.
So I turned my head, allowing me to look out the window a bit. The sun was still shining that late afternoon and a gentle breeze made the leaves on the tree outside the window flutter. I rested my eyes, thinking about my father. On his bad days, he would use a walker to get around. What concerned me was how those bad days were getting closer and closer together. For a bit, I considered asking Sinclair if I could convalesce at home rather than here—but it only took a split second to realize that would make me a burden on my father. At least here, especially because Sinclair felt responsible, I would be well cared for and waited on hand and foot.
Even by the master of the house himself.
Soon, Sinclair was back with the promised glass of water and an ice pack. He set the glass of water on a nightstand. “I suppose I should wrap this pack in a towel.” He went quickly to my bathroom and returned, already having wrapped the pack. “Do you want me to put it on top or below your ankle?”
“Maybe underneath.”
“Can you lift your—” he began to ask, but I was already lifting my leg to accommodate the ice pack underneath. “Does that feel okay?”
“It’s fine.”
“What else can I get you?”
“Maybe dinner later.”
He gave one short nod then asked, “What about other books? I see you have a couple there, but I get the idea you’re an avid reader. I don’t want you to run out of material.”
“I can’t really concentrate on reading right now.”
“What about a television? Edna used to have me watch TV when I was sick.”
“Uh, sure. That would be nice.”
He started to leave again but then said, “You should program my number into your phone so you can call when you need something.” Ah…one of the problems of living in a museum. If I had been at home, all I would have had to do would be to raise my voice, and my father would have heard me, regardless of what room he was in.
“I don’t have my phone. It’s still downstairs.”
Without a word, he left again. I found myself dozing off, likely due to sleep being a good way to deal with the constant pain. It wasn’t long before Sinclair reappeared. “The screen on your phone is shattered, so I’ve sent Greg to replace it.”
I panicked, sitting up in bed. “But I need it. It’s the only way I can contact my dad—and I don’t have his number memorized.” Stupid—because my father had always told me to commit important numbers to memory like he’d had to do when he was younger.
“Not to fear. We’ll replace the phone but have your SIM card put in it.” He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and began tapping. “I’ll make sure your data gets transferred from the old to the new—and I’ll tell him to keep the old one just in case.”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you.” As I began to rest my head against the pillows again, I said, “He’ll probably need my passcode, won’t he?”
Sinclair frowned. “He might.”
So I nodded my head and told him 0611 . Once I had my new phone, I’d use a different passcode, but for now, I simply wanted a phone. For a moment, I wondered if he would use that as a way to look at my private messages, but my father and I hadn’t said too much over text that was damning. Most of my anger and vile—and his—had been expressed verbally.
“Is that your birthday?” he asked about the code.
“Yes.”
He gave a short smile as he slid the phone back into his pocket. He’d taken off the jacket long ago and was now in just the button-down shirt and tie. “I’ll be back.” As he walked out of my room again, I once more pushed out the thoughts of him being a wonderful caregiver, my hero.
And hot as hell.
My feelings for him in that way intensified every day, but today was far worse—because he’d gone from being a man I felt like I often had to walk on eggshells around, except for the times I intentionally antagonized him, inviting his wrath…to a gentle, caring soul, one concerned for me and my well-being.
I couldn’t help but feel more warmly toward him—so I stopped chastising myself internally and tried to relax.
Again, I dozed off and didn’t awaken until Sinclair had already set up a television at the foot of the bed. He’d even brought a table in there, one I recognized from the hall that had held a vase and a couple of decorative pieces, and that was what the TV rested on. “Ah, you’re awake.” I simply nodded my head as he moved to the side of the bed, handing me a remote control. “You’ll need this. If you need help navigating, I might not be of much help but I can try.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Once more, he asked if I needed anything else and I said no. It wasn’t until an hour later that he brought me both my old phone and new. The old phone was unusable, and they’d put it in a quart food storage bag, probably to keep me from cutting a finger on the shattered glass. Still, it comforted me that I had it.
The second phone was far nicer than any I’d ever owned. I typed in my passcode, planning to change it later when he wasn’t around. I was grateful that my father’s information was there, along with a couple of messages I’d respond to shortly.
“Are you ready for my number?”
“Oh, yes.” Under contacts, I listed him as Mr. W. and typed in the number. “You might want mine too so you know it’s me.”
He also typed in my number and then announced, “I’ll bring dinner up shortly. Lucky for you, we have trays for eating in bed. I called Edna and she told me where to find them. I’ll be back soon.”
When he left again, I read the text messages from my dad. The first, the one I’d tried to read as I’d fallen down the stairs, made me frown: I checked with Chester and he can’t take me to my appointment in October. He’ll be out of the US during that time. So I’ll call the clinic and see if I can reschedule. If not, I’ll cancel. Chester was his one and only friend, the man who nowadays lived in Colorado Springs.
A couple of hours later, he’d sent another. Is everything okay, princess?
Fortunately, I had a phone again—and, had I felt better, I would have called. Instead, I sent several long messages, not letting him know I’d injured my ankle. I didn’t want him worrying about me any more than he already was.
But I had to try to talk sense into him. Do NOT cancel that appointment. I’ll find a way to make sure you get there, even though Chester can’t take you. We have plenty of time before your appointment date. Please, dad, keep that appointment!!!
I hoped he would understand my insistence with the exaggerated punctuation, but as I clicked through the selection of streaming services offered on the television in front of me, my mind worried that my father wouldn’t take my words to heart.
Another good reminder of why I had to continue hating Sinclair Whittier, no matter how caring he was being at the moment.
After seven whole days of being mostly confined to bed, I was ready to begin moving around again. My ankle was a little tender at first, but after some time, it felt good to walk on it. Both Edna and Sinclair had been like Florence Nightingale, ready to tend to my every need. As much as I’d appreciated and needed it, I wanted to care for myself again.
And I was eager to get back to work.
I had only peeked in that mysterious trunk once, finding it stuffed full of mostly papers, and I wasn’t sure how to catalog them. Today, though, I had a plan. I’d sift through the papers, trying to find a commonality among them. For all I knew, there were other things beneath the top few inches of loose pages.
When I opened the door to the downstairs, I walked cautiously—but I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only had the crumbling stair been fixed, several others had been secured. Curious, I made my way to the other set of stairs to the east—and discovered that those had been fixed as well.
Coming back to the west side where the trunk was, I noticed the spot on the floor where the glass had shattered. It had all been picked up, and there was a large area that appeared to have been swept and mopped, because it looked cleaner than the rest of the floor that wasn’t covered.
I grabbed what appeared to be an old dining room chair from the area where I’d begun storing furniture and brought it back to the trunk where I could sit. I didn’t want to overdo it in the first day on my ankle, so the trunk was the perfect project. But as I started pulling out sheets of paper, I realized I would also need a way to organize what I found. I’d emptied a couple of boxes before I’d twisted my ankle, so I brought those over, hoping I could use them to begin sorting through its contents.
Much of what I saw on top seemed like it could be tossed but, because they were stored in a trunk, I didn’t just want to toss them without checking with Sinclair—so that was how I decided to use the boxes. One would be a potential “trash” box; the other would be to keep, and the “keeps” would eventually go back in the trunk.
There were some typewritten pages stapled together—business proposals full of a lot of legalese. Those seemed like something Sinclair might want to keep, but when I looked at the date on the back pages—without signatures—I realized many of them were over thirty years old. If the Whittiers didn’t already have signed copies somewhere, they probably didn’t need them. So I instead put them in the trash box, knowing Sinclair would have the final say.
After I’d gone through the first inch of papers, I figured all I would find would be related to business. There were even letters between Augustus Sinclair and the county commissioners in Winchester about opening a mine to explore for gold.
It gave me chills. It was like I was watching history unfold.
Finally, though, I came across papers that seemed more personal—some poetry and a few drawings. There were no names on them, but I put them in the keep box. Sinclair didn’t strike me as someone sentimental at all, but even a pragmatic person might see the value in holding on to papers that were potentially written by a loved one.
Then came some photographs. It made me wonder if the reason why there were no pictures around the mansion was because Sinclair didn’t think he actually owned any. Maybe when his father moved out of this residence, he’d taken things like snapshots with him.
Pictures were definitely something to keep.
There were lots of baby photos, mostly taken by professional photographers, staged against specific scenes. But there were a few intimate ones—of a woman that I soon became certain had been Sinclair’s mother. As I looked at photo after photo, I began to form a bigger picture in my mind of the woman who had raised the boys in the snapshots. There were only pictures of her with two boys but there was one with those same children and her belly was swollen with pregnancy.
I found other pictures of those two boys with other women, sometimes with their mother in the picture as well, so I thought the other women must be nannies or aunties, but they were definitely someone important to the children.
If I hadn’t been certain, one close-up shot of the pregnant woman solidified it: Sinclair had said his mother had green eyes like emeralds—and this woman fit the bill. Besides, close up, I could tell without a doubt that she was his mother. They had the same nose and cheeks—and her wistful smile reminded me of an expression Sinclair would get when he wasn’t focused on anything in particular.
The two boys in the pictures had to be his two older brothers—because, even though they bore a slight resemblance to Sinclair, I could tell they weren’t him. Going through the baby pictures again, I searched for him specifically, finally turning them over to see if anything had been written on the backs.
A few had names jotted down: Augie appeared on most of them, with Warren on a few more. I only found one that said Cory —the secret nickname I’d given Sinclair. When I turned it over to see the photo, it was of a baby lying in a crib smiling at the person taking the picture. Even though he was probably no older than two months old, I knew it was of Sinclair. Except…he looked happier in the photo than I’d ever seen him in real life.
The same could probably be said for me.
Finally, I found a formal baby picture in an announcement from the hospital with all his pertinent information—but it was obvious that he wasn’t a newborn in the photo. It didn’t look like his brothers’ newborn pictures and he looked older…more alert and filled out.
There were also some ultrasound photos with dates that led me to believe they were also of Sinclair. If so, he was thirty or thirty-one years old, which matched up with much of what we’d discussed. I already knew he hadn’t been directly responsible for the mine—especially seeing the beginnings of negotiations that went as far back as his childhood.
Still…he was a Whittier, and the Whittiers were bad people.
As I dug deeper, I found lots of health records—not just of pregnancy but also a few that indicated both mental and physical health problems. There was nothing with anyone’s name on them but more factual papers, like What if I’m bi-polar? In fact, there were lots of documents explaining the disorder and medications along with other papers about depression, anxiety disorders, and more.
As for physical ailments, there were printouts about dozens of different diseases.
I didn’t know what to make of them—but I’d long since stopped putting anything in the trash box.
I finally came to several notebooks and journals. One was bright red, catching my eye first…so I picked it up and started reading the first page.
April 3
Gus has become colder and colder and nothing I do seems to change that. He was gone for over a week finishing some business deal in Europe. I’d had the cook prepare beef medallions just like he likes them and I opened a bottle of cab sav. I even decorated the dining room with a Welcome Home banner and some balloons, and the nannies were tending to the boys so Gus and I could spend a little romantic time together.
But when he got back, he grumbled that he was tired and went straight to bed, even after I told him a delicious dinner was waiting.
Anymore, it seems like he’s married to his job. He has little interest in sex anymore and he hardly ever looks at me the way he used to. I’ve been a good wife. I’ve been a good companion and I’ve never done anything to bring shame on this family. Why is he treating me like garbage?
I shuddered, feeling this woman’s pain through the page. Surely Gus was a nickname for Augustus —which meant that this diary had definitely been written by Sinclair’s mother. There was no year recorded, so I had no way of knowing exactly when this had been written—only that they already had children.
Part of me felt like I shouldn’t be reading this. After all, it was personal. But then I reminded myself that his mother had passed away when Sinclair was a baby…and maybe she’d written these words so that someone would read them someday.
At least, that was how I justified turning the page.