Page 77 of Fifth Avenue Devil

Annalise nods. Her eyes are already on the door. "I think so. Let's just get going."

As I zip up my suitcase, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen, expecting a message from the flight crew or perhaps one of my brothers.

Instead, I see an unexpected name:Maybe Archer Gellar. It’s a text and it says simply:Wednesday. 12pm. My Hamptons estate. Don’t tell my daughter. Come alone.

That’s ominous as fuck.

My fingers tighten around the phone. What could Annalise's father want with me? And why the secrecy?

"Is everything okay?" Annalise asks. “Is the plane ready?”

"Yeah," I bullshit. I’m sure to tuck the phone back into my pocket so she doesn't catch a glimpse of the message. "That’s it. Just some last-minute details for our flight. Nothing you really need to worry about."

"Okay," she says. She screws up her face. “Thanks, Nate. I won’t forget this.”

Somehow, I doubt I will, either.

Thirty

Nate

After a very long flight back, I said goodbye to Annalise. That was two days ago. And ever since, I’ve felt on edge. She seemed busy with work, while I was twisted up, snarled up on my own inner thoughts.

Why does Archer want to see me? And why did he tell me to keep the meeting a secret?

I haven’t seen Annalise since I got back. A mercy, since I’m keeping my rendezvous plans under wraps.

On the drive up to the Gellar mansion, I stare out the window at the luxurious beachfront properties that dot the rolling landscape of the Hamptons. In my mind, I try to explain to Annalise exactly why I’m choosing to see her father alone.

It’s a conversation that we haven’t had yet. Even in my imagination, it doesn’t go particularly well. I guess I can’t know whether I’ll have anything at all to tell Annalise until after the meeting.

The chauffeured SUV pulls up and I get out. Shading my eyes, I look up at the glass and steel frame of the mansion towering before me. It’s certainly impressive, standing out from the sandy terrain around it. But I note that it could be any beach house owned by someone wealthy. No outdoor furniture. No colorful rack of kayaks. The grounds are carefully groomed. Looking down to the shore, I see that even the sand has been smoothed out in a pleasing pattern.

The place has all the charm and quirkiness of a weekly corporate apartment rental.

In other words, there is absolutely nothing personal about it. Certainly nothing that would indicate that Annalise ever lived here.

Why is that, I wonder?

The sleek lines, and lack of color envelop me as a butler waves me into Archer Gellar's upscale beach mansion. The air inside the house is strangely stale; most of the sparse white furnishings look brand new. There is nothing cozy about the ultra-modern decor.

I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone. How could anyone who would choose to live like this have produced a nice, fairly normal girl like Annalise?

As the butler ushers me to the back of the house, my head is on a swivel. There are no signs of Annalise anywhere. Not a single picture of the family on the walls. No personal items that could hint at her presence.

From what I've seen so far, the relationship between Annalise and her mother is frigid at best. Annalise hasn’t mentioned her relationship with her father, really. But Archer wanted to wager her in our last poker game, as if she was just some chattel to be owned.

The mere thought enrages me. So what the fuck am I walking into here?

"Mr. Fordham.” The butler waves me toward the grand metal staircase, suspended from a million thin wires. Walking up it seem like the butler is asking me to perform a death-defying feat. "This way, please. Mr. Gellar doesn’t like to be left waiting."

“I’ll just bet,” I mutter to myself.

I’m pretty sure that Annalise has already been here to see him. Knowing Archer, he will already be angry about something, though he has only been awake from the coma for less than a week.

As we reach the top of the stairs, I'm ushered into Archer Gellar's bedroom. The man himself lies in bed, swathed in silk monogrammed pajamas, propped up by a mountain of pillows. His wife stands beside him, holding a glass of water with a tight grip.

"Here, darling," she coos, offering the water to her husband.

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