Poppy
He has a lovely face, to be honest. Should she be pleased by this—that her father has handsome, charismatic features?
Because it didn’t exactly translate into beauty in her own face, combined as it is with aspects of Lillith’s.
Or should she be wary because his appearance has been a tool—a gift—in his ability to beguile, and deceive?
Like a colorful, graceful, lethal snake.
Lillith smiles and says, “Hendrick, this is my stepson I was telling you about, Patrick.”
Patrick rises and reaches across the table to shake Hendrick’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he says in that oddly formal-is-the-new-casual posh way of his, where one can’t be certain if he’s mocking or serious. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Not for me, thank you.” Hendrick’s attention turns to Poppy. A buzzing noise begins in her ears. She wants to look away, can’t. Dr. Marsh’s words echo in her head.
He’s a superficially charming, narcissistic psychopath. He constructed glamorous personas in order to mask deep insecurities. And he used people whenever and however he could.
“And you must be the assistant?” he asks warmly.
Lillith says, “This is Poppy Buchanan. A godsend.”
“Good to meet you, Poppy.” He reaches for her hand.
She cannot move, can’t make herself reach for his hand. Seconds seem to stretch. Her world turns syrupy, elastic. Chandeliers swing. Her glass slides a little on the table. Liquid sloshes inside.
Patrick grabs her glass, stops it from moving. “You all right, Poppy?” he asks gently.
“I, ah—” She reaches for the man’s hand. “Sorry. A spot of seasickness, I think. Got distracted trying not to throw up. Nice—” Her voice sticks. She coughs and clears her throat. “Nice to meet you, too.”
He takes hold of her hand, and his gaze fixes on hers.
Direct. Full attention. A man who makes others feel special—as though they are all that matters to him in that exact moment.
He seems to exude an unspoken promise that he will look out for them if they ever need his help.
But Poppy knows, when victims fall for it, they end up poisoned, sick, dead, beaten, hacked, burned.
She’s read a lot about the killings on the Hippie Trail in the seventies.
His grip is warm. Firm. Her entire life seems to run through her head as his skin connects with hers. Every little moment since her adoption is reorganizing itself in her brain against all this new information. It changes everything about her self-narrative, about the very idea of who she is.
“I hope you’re enjoying the trip.” Her voice comes out weird. It’s a stupid thing to say.
He suddenly doesn’t seem to notice, or even care what Lillith’s lowly assistant sounds or looks like or says. His attention is now firmly back on the rich widow.
As he takes a seat next to Lillith, she moves her sparkling diamanté clutch out of his way. She sets it on her right-hand side, next to her glass. The shimmer and glitter of diamanté crystals again snares Poppy’s attention.
Her mind spins back to that pouch Avi gave her, and the memory of Lillith slipping it into the clutch. She’s beginning to get a weird feeling.
“You sure you’re okay?” Patrick whispers near her ear.
She nods. “I think so.”
“Don’t fuss about him—it’s sweet, an admirer at her age. He seems harmless enough.”
“Right,” she says quietly, heart still racing, perspiration prickling under her arms, palms sweaty. Everything feels too close, too much.