The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [17]
He steps to the edge of the mattress, and in one smooth move, drops himself on his butt, bounces off the bed, and springboards to his feet. No matter how risky, no matter how wild—always a perfect landing.
“Oliver, I don’t care about the money,” he says as he slaps the envelope against my chest. “But if you don’t start making some changes soon, you’re gonna be that guy who—when he hits his forty-third birthday—hates his life.”
I stare him straight in the eye, unmoved by the comment. “At least I won’t be living with my mother in Brooklyn.”
His shoulders fall and he steps backwards. I don’t care.
“Get out,” I add.
At first, he just stands there.
“You heard me, Charlie—get out.”
Shaking his head, he finally heads toward the door. First slow, then fast. As he turns, I swear there’s a grin on his face. The door slams behind him and I look through the peephole. Doop, doop, doop—Charlie bounds up the stairs. “Open it and find out!” he shouts from outside. And just like that, he’s gone.
* * * *
Ten minutes after Charlie leaves, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring down at the envelope. Behind me, the refrigerator’s humming. The radiator’s clanging. And the water in the teapot is just starting to boil. I tell myself it’s because I’m in the mood for some instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn’t buy it for a second.
It’s not like I’m talking about stealing the money. It’s just about my boss. It’s important to know what he thinks.
Outside, a car whizzes by, thumping through the crater-sized pothole that’s in front of the brownstone. Through the tops of my windows, I see the car’s black wheels. That’s the only view I get from the basement. The sight of things moving on.
The water starts boiling—hitting its high note and screaming wildly through my mostly bare kitchen. Within a minute, the high-pitched shriek feels like it’s been going for a year. Or two. Or four.
Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That’s what happens when you miss an insurance payment to juggle your other bills. It’s another two decades of mom’s life. Two decades of worrying. Two decades of being trapped. Unless I can get her out.
My eyes go straight to the blue-and-white envelope. Whatever’s inside… whatever he wrote… I need to know. For all of us.
I grab the envelope and shoot out of my seat so fast, I knock the chair to the floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the tea kettle, watching the geyser of steam pound through the air. With a quick flick of my thumb, I open the tea kettle’s spout. The whistling stops and the column of steam gets thicker.
In my hands, the envelope’s shaking. Lapidus’s signature, perfect as it is, becomes a mess of movement. I hold my breath and struggle to keep it steady. All I have to do is put it in the steam. But just as I go to do it, I freeze. My heart drops and everything starts to blur. It’s just like what happened with the wire transfer… but this time… No. Not this time.
Tightening my grip on the envelope, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing at all. Then, in one quick moment, I hold on to the bottom of the envelope, lower the sealed side into the steam, and pray to God this works just like it does in the movies.
Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from the condensation. Working the corners first, I angle the edge toward the tea kettle. The steam warms my hands, but when I bring it too close, it burns the tips of my fingers. As carefully as I can, I slide my thumb into the edge of the envelope and pry open the smallest of spaces. Letting it fill with steam, I work my thumb in deeper and try to inch the flap open. It looks like it’s about to rip… but just as I’m about to give up… the glue gives way. From there, I peel it like I’m pulling the back from a Band-Aid.
Tossing aside the envelope, I yank open the two-page letter. My eyes start skimming, looking for buzzwords, but it’s like opening a college acceptance letter—I can barely read. Slow down, Oliver. Start