Chapter 4
“I implied that my brother has voluntarily explained things. This is rare.”
I shook my head.
“You’re reading too much into it.”
“Probably. I enjoy reading.”
She bit into her toast.
“By the way, if you intend to remain furious with him, that’s entirely reasonable. Just don’t mistake quiet for indifference. Niko can care about something so intensely that he begins looking like furniture.”
I laughed despite myself.
That afternoon, Stella came to the penthouse carrying pastries, three magazines, and the expression of someone preparing to inspect a suspicious rental property.
She hugged me for nearly a minute.
Then she held me at arm’s length.
“You’re okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“He didn’t—”
“No.”
“Did he try?”
“No.”
She exhaled.
“Good.”
From the kitchen, Sofia called, “We do keep our barbarians civilized.”
Stella stared at me.
“Who is that?”
“Niko’s sister.”
“Why is she funny?”
“I’m still investigating.”
Within an hour, Stella and Sofia were sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor arguing about whether my wedding hairstyle had been beautiful or “architecturally hostile.”
For the first time since Thursday, I felt almost normal.
Then Stella noticed the letter on the coffee table.
“What’s that?”
“My father wants me to meet him Tuesday.”
Her expression changed.
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“At the old house.”
Stella knew what that meant.
She had been sixteen the last time she visited the Westchester house, when we had spent an entire summer pretending to study French beside the pool.
“That’s weird.”
“I know.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Stella leaned back against the sofa.
“Bring Niko.”
Sofia looked pleasantly surprised.
“You have known my brother for approximately eight minutes.”
“I know Amelia’s father much better.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Stella hesitated.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“Stella.”
She sighed.
“Your dad called me Friday.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What?”
“He wanted to know if you were with me.”
“You never told me.”
“You had just learned you were getting married in forty-eight hours. It didn’t seem like the moment to add another strange detail.”
“What else did he say?”
“He asked me something.”
“What?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“He asked whether your mother ever gave you a key.”
Sofia stopped smiling.
“A key to what?” I asked.
“He didn’t say.”
I searched my memory.
My mother had given me countless things over the years: a silver bracelet, books with notes in the margins, an old music box, a recipe card for lemon cake.
A key?
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I would remember.”
Stella shrugged uneasily.
“He sounded scared.”
That word again.
Scared.
My father, whose career had survived hostile hearings, tabloid investigations, and two election recounts, had sounded frightened for days.
Tuesday morning arrived gray and humid.
At eight-thirty, I found Niko in his office.
The door was open, which I took as permission.
He looked up from a stack of papers.
“You decided.”
I nodded.
“Come with me.”
No smugness.
No comment.
He simply closed the folder.
“All right.”
The drive north took less than an hour.
The old house stood beyond iron gates and a long driveway lined with maples. It looked smaller than I remembered, although perhaps childhood had made every room larger.
My father was waiting at the front door.
For a second, seeing him there nearly undid me.
He looked older than he had four days earlier.
His gaze moved from me to Niko.
Something like relief crossed his face.
“You brought him.”
May you like
“You said I could.”
“I’m glad.”
