Page 102 of Hell Hath No Fury

He nods, motioning for me to precede him, and we walk out of the room, headed back toward where everyone is waiting. I immediately hand the address to Matt, who takes one look and takes out his phone. He taps on the screen a few times, then waits a few moments before saying, “This residence is owned by one Deidre DiMera.”

“Do we know a Deidre DiMera?” Darius asks.

I shake my head as I reply, “No, but DiMera is one of the names Mickey used here, so they must be connected—“

“He have a wife or something?” Antoinette interrupts. “A sister?”

“Not that he ever shared with me,” I respond, rubbing my forehead.

Patty heads toward the door. “May as well go find out.”

Matt frowns after him but starts walking toward the exit. “You’re coming with us?”

“Yes,” he answers. “As I’ve already explained, my instructions are clear.”

Matt looks at me, and I shrug, not wanting to be put in any kind of time out and delay the end of this stupid adventure. Once again, we all pile into the waiting vehicle, this time headed uptown in moderate traffic.

By the time we make it to the correct address, I’m considering becoming a problem because, honestly, I’m not sure I even want to know what Mickey has been sitting on. Especially since it must be something he never felt he could bring to me while he was alive.

We exit the vehicle onto the sidewalk, where we all stand, staring up at what appears to be a fancy front entrance of a verylarge, likely very expensive home. Turning to Matt, I whisper, “Is this the correct place?”

Matt nods, but Patty answers, “This is it.”

He leads us up the stairs to the double doors. I hand him my key, and he unlocks the door easily, opening it and allowing us all to enter before him. Then, we all stand inside the doors, mouths dropped open at the sheer opulence of the room before us. A marble staircase sweeps up to the second level, and a ginormous crystal chandelier taunts me from the high ceiling. The entire space sparkles with old-time elegance and spacious grandeur, and I find I’m not the only one shocked into silence.

After a few turns in the middle of the room, Antoinette asks, “This must be worth a fortune.”

“For sure it is,” Patty responds. “In today’s market, probably high 30‘s, low 40’s.”

“Holy shit,” Antoinette mutters, moving further into the room and spinning around even more slowly. “This is crazy.”

“This way,” Patty instructs, already moving across the room. He stops in front of an elevator, pressing the down button. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore later. Our business is downstairs.”

“Are you saying our business is in the basement?” Darius asks slowly, his suspicion evident in his tone.

Patty nods as we all get into the elevator, and then, just as the doors close, Antonio mutters, “I have never had any basement business go well.”

“Me neither,” Matt says.

“There will be no funny business here,” Patty attempts to assure us, but I for one am not buying it.

We end up going down two floors, a feat that I find disconcerting. We exit, following Patty as he leads us to a far corner of the otherwise empty room, stopping in front of a door. Patty taps the black screen to the right of the door, and it wakesimmediately, a rough outline of a face appearing. Patty turns to me and says, “Stand close to the screen so it can scan your retinas.”

“How would that thing know what my retinas look like?” I scoff, put off by how fucked up this feels.

“I don’t ask questions, Ms. Ferro. I get instructions, and I deliver.”

Antoinette nudges me toward the door, so I slowly lean into it, flinching as the door beeps and the light on the screen turns green.

Patty pushes the door open. “You all can stay out here until after she’s had a wee look around.”

No one argues, and slowly, I walk into the large room, shocked by how full of stuff it is. Old pictures cover the walls, and antique furniture is placed all around the perimeter and in the center, setting up a track of walking space.

“What you’re looking for is straight ahead, on top of the desk.”

I don’t bother stalling, opting to walk to the desk at full speed, thinking that’s the closest thing to ripping off a Band-Aid as I can get. Sure enough, resting on the top of the desk is another envelope with my name on it.

Once again, his familiar handwriting sends pain straight through my chest, and I find myself holding the envelope in both hands, staring down at the jagged word.

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