Page 75 of Boardroom Ties
Something about it just felt wrong, though. “Is it dangerous?”
“The money? It won’t bite, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“The work, Gi,” I said impatiently. “Is it dangerous?”
She looked at me then, finally, and her face did a funny flicker. The older-sister, nonchalant,I can’t-be-botheredarmor slipped and underneath was a girl who was so unbelievably tired. Then she put it right back on. “It’s fine. I’m a grown woman who can handle herself, and you are a precious widdle baby who needs textbooks. Take. The. Money.”
My own mask must’ve slipped and revealed that, underneath, I was a girl who was afraid that my big sister was going to hurt herself. Seeing it, Giana softened. She reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear. The motion made her blouse gap and I saw fingerprint bruises along the top of her breast. But she forced my eyes to meet hers.
“Hey. Look at me. I’m okay. I’m always okay. That’s my thing, remember? You go be smart, and I’ll go be okay, and one day, we’ll both be sitting somewhere fancy, getting fat off room service and laughing about all this.”
I stare at the fire until my eyes ache.
As it turned out, she was not okay. Not in the least. Five years after that envelope landed in my lap, a man cracked her skull in a hotel room and she did not get to laugh about anything, ever again.
The memory leaves me a little nauseous, but also more certain than ever.
Raymond is going to die this weekend.
I’m going to make sure of it.
24
CASS
By half past midnight, Raymond still isn’t back.
I’ve been picking at the rest of the room service chicken with my fingers like a raccoon. It came with a hot sauce to dip in and now, my mouth is on fire, and nothing in this world sounds more satisfying than a glass of ice water. Unfortunately, the ice bucket on the bar cart has melted into a sad little puddle of regret.
Ergo, it’s time for a field trip to the ice machine.
I shrug on the cream cashmere robe that came with the suite, knot it around my waist, and slide my feet into the matching embroidered slippers. I look in the mirror over the dresser and wince.
Oh, sothat’swhat I look like after seeking revenge for four years straight while constantly wallowing in heartbreaking memories. I’m not exactly a L’Oréal commercial at the moment.
My hair is in a messy bun with two wispy, ratty pieces falling out of it, and there’s a row of parallel pink creases on my cheek fromwhere I leaned on the heel of my hand while watching the fire. I’ve undone years of my aesthetician’s finest work.
In this oversized robe, I look like I stole clothing from the Jolly Green Giant’s closet. To top it all off, I have matching dots of sauce on the upper part of either boob. Yellow mustard on the left, red ketchup on the right. How perfectly lovely.
Where’s Mr. DeMille? I’m ready for my close-up.
I consider running a brush through my hair, then decide against it. It’s an ice machine, not the Met Gala. The hallway will be empty at this hour, and if anyone’s up, they’ll be in their own version of bathrobe-and-room-service despair.
I grab the ice bucket and slip out the door.
Lucky for me, the hallway is indeed empty. It’s a shame this place will always hold gruesome memories for me, because it’s really quite nice, if a bit old money for my taste. The wallpaper is hunter green with little gold pheasants on it, and the carpet is plush enough to swallow my bare feet up to the ankle. Tinkling piano music emanates from somewhere unseen.
Each door is marked with a knocker in the shape of a different animal. The Honeymoon Suite that I just emerged from has a sneering ram. Next door is a sleek wolf with its fangs bared.
A little brass plaque on the wall readsICE & VENDINGwith an arrow pointing left. I traipse in that direction, passing ostrich, lion, and walrus knockers before arriving at a small alcove tucked behind a glass-paned door. On the door, it saysTHE ICE ROOMin the same fussy Tudor lettering as everything else in this building. Pompous to the end.
On second thought, this is a really fitting place for Raymond to die.
I hope they stow his body in a room with a jackass on the knocker until the coroner comes to collect him.
I slip insideTHE ICE ROOM—and yes, I do pronounce it with a posh, snotty,of-course-I-went-to-Exeter-boarding-school, why-do-you-askvoice in my head—and immediately freeze.
Because I’m not alone.
