Page 111 of Forbidden Dark Vows

“No.” Pause. “No, I can sort it.”

“That’s what I pay you for.”

I end the call. The elevator stops smoothly, and the doors swish open.

One of my father’s old associates is waiting to ride it back up, and I greet him with a wide smile and well-practiced handshake, firm enough to project confidence and control of the situation. Too limp, and you can kiss goodbye to any futurebusiness transactions; too heavy-handed and it implies a level of intimidation. It isn’t something they teach at Harvard—it’s a Weiss family thing. My father is a pro.

“Brandon, you’ll be at the family celebrations.”

“Of course.” I incline my head and keep the smile fixed in place like the dutiful eldest son.

“See you there. My wife and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Of course they wouldn’t. It will provide a conversation starter for weeks after the event. “Did you hear about Harry Weiss’s birthday festivities? We were there by personal invitation.”

I turn away to cross the sleek marble-floored lobby and collide with a child.

The infant barely reaches my thighs—I know this because as she lands on her backside, her sticky fingerprints are left behind as evidence on my suit pants. The mouth opens, the chubby cheeks grow pink, and siren-strength wails fill the otherwise silent lobby.

A young woman comes running over clutching a plastic container filled with sandwiches, sliced salad vegetables, and a rosy, red apple. She hoists the child onto her hip, dropping the container in the process.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, bouncing the child up and down, oblivious to the sound emitting from her. Her gaze immediately drops to the fingerprints on my pants, and she wrinkles her nose. “It’ll wipe off. It’s only watermelon juice. She was eating a slice of watermelon on the way here.”

Sarah, the receptionist, joins us. She blinks slowly, her mouth a round ‘O’ of horror. “I’ll fetch some tissues.” She scurries back to the front desk.

“I’m on my way to a meeting.” I’m still staring at the stains—there’s no way they’re wiping off with a tissue.

“It was an accident.” The woman strokes the child’s blonde curls and rubs noses with her until the tears dry up and the siren-shrieks morph into the occasional juddering sob. When she looks at me again, her eyes are accusing. “You should’ve been watching where you were going.”

“You do realize this is a private office building, right?” I say.

Sarah is busy dealing with a client while the stains on my pants are drying up.

The woman with the child rolls her eyes around the high-ceilinged, glass and chrome lobby with its white leather couches and carefully chosen artwork. “My mistake, I thought this was preschool, but I can see now that it’s far too clean and stuffy.”

“Stuffy?” I don’t even know why I’m getting drawn into this conversation. This is my building. I should be able to come and go without fear of sticky fingers and bawling kids.

“Yes, I bet there’s zero fun to be had in this building.”

A retort teeters on the tip of my tongue, the kind I might’ve spouted as a fourteen-year-old with raging hormones and giant footsteps to fill. Instead, I clench my fists and jut my jaw, the façade that works with everyone else in my life.

Sarah’s gaze flits back and forth between the client and our conversation as if realizing she might’ve prioritized the wrong person.

The young woman’s shoulders slump as the child rests her head on her chest and peers at me from beneath long wet eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll pay for your pants to be dry-cleaned if it will help.”

“Not really,” I say. “I’m already late.”

I see the hurt in her eyes and ignore it anyway. I don’t know why the incident has me so rattled. Scratch that. I do know why it has me so rattled—it has nothing to do with the fingerprints that are already starting to fade, and everything to do with the young woman whose honey-blonde hair, if released from the ponytail secured at the nape of her neck, would curl the same way as Kelly’s.

I go to walk around them and hesitate, bending to retrieve the plastic container from the floor. “You dropped this,” I say, handing it over.

“Thank you. It’s for my dad. It’s his lunch; he forgot it this morning. He’s careless like that. My mom always said that he’d forget his head if it wasn’t?—”

“Your dad works here?” I cut her off.

Most people tend to overshare. Ask a simple question, and they’ll spill enough information to either incriminate themselves or gain a new friend. It’s the reason why I stick to the questions that will give me the answers I’m looking for.

She nods. She has the same color eyes too… “He’s the janitor.”

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