Page 63 of Burning Daylight
Besides there being an actual sign signifying the area, the branding changes from the Calloway name to an intricateMwith a rose behind it and a sword through the middle, filigree surrounding the image.
There’s a white colonial-style building that sits right on the edge of the neighborhood with a faded red sign that saysThe Round Table Tavern.
The sidewalks are smaller. Streetlights flicker, and every few blocks, the lights don’t work at all.
This is my father’s area—theMontgomeryarea—and it pisses me off to see it not being tended to in the same way as the rest of the town. It isn’t like Rosebrook is giant; there’sno reason for so much disparity. Apparently, my father’s habit of not taking care of the things in his life extends beyond an estranged child.
We creep up a large hill, and even from a distance, I can see my father’s manor at the top of it, secluded from the rest of the neighborhood and behind a giant black gate so nobody can reach him.
The gate is a newer addition. When I was nineteen, I was able to make it all the way to the front door before I was turned away, and part of me wonders if maybe it was addedbecauseof that visit.
My knee bounces in place like a rhythmic clock as the car gets buzzed in through the gate and climbs up the gravel drive, the sound of pebbles crunching underneath the tires loud in my ears.
The driveway is shaped like a U, circling by the front of the mansion, and I stare at the place, frozen in my seat as the car rolls to a stop.
The house itself is nice, the upkeep far surpassing what we just drove through at the bottom of the hill, and another bit of resentment buzzes in my ear like a gnat.
It’s Tudor-style architecture with so much green foliage, it’s climbing up the walls. There’s light-brown stucco on the front with darker brown wood pieces placed strategically to create a pattern of squares on the surface, and a wraparound deck that’s half hidden behind meticulously trimmed bushes.
I’m frozen in place.When I get out, everything will change.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grab it, desperate for an excuse to put this off.
Ma:
You there yet?
I grit my teeth and reply.
Me:
Yeah.
Ma:
Remember what I said. Let him protect you. This is meant to be YOUR empire, Roman. Don’t forget who put you there. And if you see Juliette Calloway, don’t let a little thing like names get in your way.
Inhaling deeply, I reach out to open the car door and enter my new life, my heart in my throat, but before I can, Bartholomew is there swinging it open for me.
This is a different world.
I step into the crisp evening air, calm infusing itself into the moment.
It’s quiet, other than the gravel crushing underneath my shoes. I crack my neck, the anxiety rolling off my shoulders. My thumb spins my ring on my forefinger, and I wish I had a joint to calm the nerves.
A flash goes off in the distance from the direction of the gate, and I turn toward the quick light but don’t see anything.
“What was that?” I ask Bartholomew.
He turns to look in the direction I was. “What was what, Mr. Montgomery?”
I give him a sharp look.
“Roman,” he corrects.
“You didn’t see that flash?”
His bushy salt-and-pepper brows furrow, and he squints but then shakes his head. “Probably paparazzi fromThe Rosebrook Rag.” He gives me a worn and tired look. “I’ll have Frederick keep any photos from the press.”
