Page 112 of Forbidden Dark Vows

I hear my own breath escaping and do nothing to stop it. I couldn’t pick out the janitor in a police line-up, but I’d bet my lucky dollar that he looks nothing like his daughter.

“Tell him there’s a café across the road if he forgets it in future.” I walk away.

Sarah dashes around the desk waving a tissue at me like a flag. “Mr. Weiss. The tissues…”

“Forget it.” I don’t even glance behind me.

My phone rings again and, distracted, I answer without thinking.

“Brandon, honey,” Mom’s voice is silky-smooth. “I was starting to think that you were avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy, Mom,” I say.

“Too busy to discuss your father’s birthday party?”

“I’ll have to call you back, Mom. I’m on my way to a meeting.” I cut her off and locate Julia’s direct line on my call log.

She picks up before the phone even rings. “What did you forget?”

“The janitor,” I say.

I can almost hear her sliding closer to her desk and locating his personal details on the internal system. “What about him?”

“Who is he? Name, background, length of service.”

“Jonathan Carter. Came to us from a local high school. References all checked out. Eleven years’ service. Squeaky clean.” Her tone is professional. “Was granted compassionate leave when his wife died four years ago. What’s the problem?”

“His daughter and grandkid were in the lobby when I left. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Okay.” Julia seems to want to say more, but I don’t give her the opportunity.

A sleek black Bentley is parked outside the building, the rear passenger window rolling down as I approach. My mom’s face appears, and she calls out, “Brandon!” At least she doesn’t pretend that she was just passing by.

The passenger door opens—it’s an order not an invitation.

I climb in beside my mother who is looking regal in an ivory Chanel two-piece, her legs crossed primly at the ankles, her favorite subtle perfume filling the back of the car. All that’s needed to complete the queenly image is a gentle wave to her subjects through the window. I breathe in the familiar scent and my lips instinctively curl up at the corners. At thirty-five years old, I wonder if I will ever stop needing her praise and approval.

The Bentley joins the slow-moving traffic—it would be quicker to walk.

“Your father’s birthday.” She dives straight in—Ruby Weiss has never mastered the art of small talk. “You didn’t respond to my email.”

“I’ve been busy.” I don’t add that I knew she’d be angry if Julia replied on my behalf. “I’m not sure I can make it. I might have to fly out to Europe.”

She fixes me with the gaze usually reserved for wealthy acquaintances who are about to donate a large sum of cash to whichever charity she’s promoting at the time. “I already cleared your diary with Julia weeks ago, Brandon. I’ve managed to get hold of the Patek Philippe wristwatch your father has admired for so long. The Grandmaster Chime. And I want everyone to be there when he sees it.”

“For the grand unveiling,” I say.

For his sixtieth birthday, she had my father’s portrait painted by a relatively unknown Baltimore artist highly recommended by a close friend. His reaction was somewhat anticlimactic, and the painting has never been seen since.

“You seem a little on edge.” My mom’s eyes narrow as she studies my face.

I glance at my phone. A message from Julia:Done.

I need to get out of the car, walk to the meeting, clear my head and release some of the tightness in my neck and shoulders. Perhaps I’ll get Julia to arrange the masseuse for later this afternoon; weekly visits are no longer enough.

“I’m fine,” I say tightly.

“You work too hard,” she says without conviction. “You need someone to look after you.”

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