Page 79 of The Catalyst

This is why I hate rich people. They could do so much good in the world with the gifts they have been granted, but no, they drive expensive cars, pay to have their driveway landscaped, and pay millions of dollars for big mansions with rooms I doubt they have ever been in.

Not to mention, they’re entitled.

Generally speaking, of course.

I walk slowly down the driveway because even I can admit, the scenery is nice. I doubt the man at the gate would let Nigel O’Reilly in here. It’s possible but unlikely.

I covered my tracks well.

I walk up the ten steps from the driveway to the front door. Knocking my knuckles against the white door, I count my breaths as I wait, trying to slow my racing heart. I’ve made it to one-fifty by the time the door opens, and a potbelly-owning, elderly man stands there in a suit.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I nod. “Yes, I’m looking for Martin Gray.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs before pulling open the door. “Come in and I’ll retrieve him.”

I wonder if his boss would appreciate his attitude. He’s acting like I’ve inconvenienced him.

I hold my head high before stepping through the threshold and it’s as if I walked into the twilight zone. I mean, I expected the inside to be lavish and a show of the type of money this family is rolling in, but it wasn’t this.

I walk further into the glorified mansion. The tile floor seems literally made of gold, and the paintings hanging on the walls must cost more than the house my mother purchased in this town. A crystal chandelier hangs in the entryway as light elevator music plays in the distance. My pulse thrums in my neck as the man who let me in side-steps me.

“I’ll let Mr. Gray know you’re here. What name shall I give him?” he asks as he bends his arm behind his back.

My eyes narrow as I mutter, “Beth Mercer. He knows who I am.”

He nods and walks down the hall to my left as I look at the very nice painting of a lush forest at the edge of a mountain with snow caps at the top. It’s really pretty and tranquil. It doesn't have the vibe of chandeliers and gold. It’s something my dad would’ve attempted to paint on one of his days off work, but his talent was never like this.

I look down at the name at the corner of the painting, wondering if it’s a name I might recognize.

My dad thought of himself as an art collector when I was little. Our house was full of so many pieces, but I don’t recognize the name at the bottom of the painting.

Maizie Gray

Maizie. It’s such a pretty name. It has to be a family member. Why else would they show off the painting?

“Can I help you?” A deep voice calls and I snap my head around to see a man standing there, leaning against the wall. With dirty blonde hair perfectly managed and manicured and sapphire blue eyes, he looks like an older version of Martin wearing an expensive navy blue suit complete with a tie and loafers on his feet.

This must be Martin’s dad. He looks made of money and like that defines every aspect of his life, but that doesn’t account for the look in his eyes.

Cold.

Calculated.

Empty.

I’m not the best judge of character in the world, but I’d say I’m pretty decent when it comes to most people. I don’t trust this man just by looking at him.

“Sorry. I’m just waiting on Martin,” I say as I take a step away from the painting.

He nods before those eyes of his move up and down my body before shifting to the painting. “You’re Darcy Mercer’s daughter, right?”

How does he know my mom? Wait, Michael said she’d been over for dinner or something like that. Right.

“Yes. She’s my mom,” I admit, feeling like snakes are slithering up my arms even though he’s not looking at me. “It’s a really pretty painting,” I say to fill the silence.

“That it is. She was a talented artist.”

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