Page 14 of Backlash

“Thanks for the hot chocolate, Felix.”

“I’d say any time…” He trails off.

“Understandable. I’m just going to pop up to her room.”

“If you want, but she’s not here,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m not lying to you.”

“Would you admit if you were?” I ask.

He tips his head, conceding my point’s valid. I don’t bother to argue with him on this. Felix and I aren’t likely to ever be best friends, and it’s not like I need him to show me the way. I wind my way up the narrow staircase that leads into the family quarters.

The first floor of Windfall is all for show. A foyer that could house a tennis court. A sitting room meant to host cocktail parties. An atrium that’s basically a ballroom. Upstairs is where the MacLaines live their lives, but that doesn’t make it much homier. I pause at the top of the staircase, remembering the last time I was here. It seems like a lifetime ago. I guess that’s because it was. Glancing to the corridor on the left, I see that they’ve taken down her mother’s art. I can only imagine how Adair felt about that. I suppose that wing of the house is occupied by Malcolm and his wife now. I don’t go that way. Instead, I take a right and find my way to the far side of the house. Adair’s room overlooks the gardens below. It’s not really a room. At least, not in the traditional sense. It’s practically a condo. A living area, two bathrooms, a bedroom, a reading room. I wander through each, but she’s not here, like Felix said. Still, she’s everywhere. A lot of things might have changed since I left, but there are pieces of the girl she was littered everywhere. The clues paint a picture of her life while I was gone. Books are piled unceremoniously on the floor next to her bed, on the desk overlooking the gardens, shoved into shelves built into the walls. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of them. She’s never bothered with alphabetizing. These books are read. These books are loved. Somehow, seeing that—knowing that part of her survived—reminds me that, as much as she tries to act like there’s nothing left between us, there’s too much to be ignored. We’ll always have this. This shared love. This shared language.

For one moment, I stand there, hands shoved in my pockets, and stare at all these pieces of her.

A different life flashes before my eyes. A little house with a covered porch and a wicker swing, somewhere far from here. Adair is tucked under a blanket on it, reading, I’m next to her with a book in my hands, and everything is right with the world. Some people want to believe in fairy tales. Those aren’t real. I believe in real. I want us to be real.

I shake off the sentimental bullshit. It’s not doing me any good to sit around and fantasize. That’s not what got me this far, and it won’t get me where I’m going. She’s not here. I shouldn’t be surprised. It was a long shot, no matter what Jack said. Adair has never felt at home here. It’s not the first place she would run. I used to know exactly where she would go. The trouble is that I don’t know where that place is anymore. Or do I?

She ran to me. She came to me. And for a few hours, I’d gotten everything I wanted.

Adair MacLaine’s trust. Her desire. Her love? Maybe.

It gives me hope that we can get past this misunderstanding, but can I ever admit that’s not what I came here for? All of this was part of my plan. I wanted her to trust me, to love me, to want me. I didn’t plan on wanting her back.

Some things don’t change. That’s why she’s not here. I knew she wouldn’t be. She always wanted to leave this life behind. Was leaving me behind the first step in finally doing that?

What life does she want?

The publishing house. She wants to be an editor. It’s the only concrete thing I know she wants. I whip out my phone, trying to remember the name. Bluebell or something like that. A quick search reminds me. Bluebird Press. That’s the publishing house her father left her. The one she got a job at without mentioning her last name. It might have seemed conniving a month ago. Now I see it as a means of survival. Maybe her brother blew that, but if I know Adair, she’s not going to give up on her dream that easily. She might not be there now, but I can sit out front and wait for her to show up tomorrow, or the day after, or however long it takes if she keeps avoiding my calls.

I’m halfway down the hall and on my way back to Nashville when Malcolm finds me. He’s abandoned his suit in favor of a pair of khakis and a button-down with its sleeves rolled to his elbows. That’s as casual as he gets. He holds out a hand. “Security informed me you were here. I thought you might have come to see me, but…”

I don’t bother fumbling for an excuse as to why I’m down the hall from his sister’s room. Malcolm has plenty of people stroking his fragile ego, I don’t have to bother. There are more important things for me to focus on at the moment. “I’m looking for Adair.” I slide my phone into my pocket. “Have you heard from her?”

“Not since this afternoon,” he says coolly. He studies me for a moment, but seems to come up short in his analysis. It’s the dance we’ve done since the beginning, turning circles around one another and waiting for the right moment to strike. I’m done with the sidestepping. It’s time to upend his perfect, if false, reality.

“That’s right,” I say, taking a step closer. “She told me about that.”

“She did?” He’s surprised. I guess he doesn’t have much experience with people confiding in him.

I smile widely and begin to walk away. “Adair tells me most things.”

“You two have gotten close.” Malcolm follows me as swiftly as his pride will allow.

He still hasn’t put it together. He doesn’t remember meeting me before. He doesn’t recall how his family tried to ruin my life. If I ever had a moment’s doubt about destroying him, it’s gone now. He deserves whatever he gets. There’s no need to hide now. I pause near the stairs down to the kitchens. “We’ve always been close.”

“How close were you with her?” He squints as if trying to see me more clearly. Then he glances over to the servant’s staircase, his face momentarily puzzled, as if he can’t figure out why we’re here.

“I came in through the kitchen,” I explain.

“You came in through…” his words trail into a question. Maybe a few questions. “How do you know where the kitchen is?”

Malcolm MacLaine wants answers, but it’s too fun to dangle them over his head just out of reach. I’m not giving him the carrot, he’s going to have to jump for it. “I think if you try, you’ll remember me.”

There’s a pause as his head tilts, his eyes still narrowed as he studies my face. All he saw when I showed up for his father’s funeral was my Italian suit, my Breitling watch, my Aston Martin. He’s never bothered to really stop and look at me. He saw as far as he needed to see to deem me worthy of sharing his air.

“You’re…” He stops and stares at me.