The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [93]
He rolls his eyes like a pouty teenager. “Can you please not overreact—this isn’t General Hospital…”
“Dammit, I knew something was—” I hear a noise in the hallway and cut myself off.
“Saved by the bella,” Charlie whispers.
“What’s going on?” Gillian asks, stopping by the door.
“Nothing,” Charlie says. “Just raiding your dad’s medicine chest. Didja know he’s got tampons in there?”
“Those’re mine, Einstein.”
“That’s what I meant… I meant, those’re yours.” Dancing around me, he slides out of the bathroom—but right now, my eyes are on Gillian as she walks down the hallway.
“Careful, you’ve got some drool on your lip,” he whispers as he passes. “I mean, not that I blame you—with all that hippiechick voodoo she’s got going, I’m getting all sweaty myself.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” I growl.
“I’m sure we will,” he says. “But if I were you, I’d slow down on buying her a corsage, and focus more on the problem at hand.”
* * * *
By seven o’clock, all we’ve got left are the kitchen, the garage, and the two hall closets. “I got the kitchen,” Gillian says. That leaves the final two. Charlie grins at me. I squint right back. Only a fool would take the garage.
“On three…” he challenges. “Two takes it.”
I grin this time—and tuck my right hand behind my back.
“One, two, three, shoot…” His rock beats scissors.
“Shoot…” My scissors beats paper.
“Shoot…” Rock beats scissors… again.
“Damn!” I say, annoyed.
“I’m telling you, you’re a sucker for those scissors…”
I turn my scissors into a middle finger and storm to the garage.
Smiling ear to ear, he pivots and heads up the hallway.
As I’m about to turn the corner, I spin around, ready to issue a double-or-nothing challenge. Charlie should be at the hall closets. Instead, he’s at the closed door at the far end of the hall. Duckworth’s bedroom. The only place we haven’t been. In truth, it shouldn’t matter—Gillian already said she went through it—but I know my brother better than that. I see the skulk in his walk. He stares at the door like he’s got X-ray vision. After nine hours of picking through this dead man’s life, he wants to know what’s inside.
“Where’re you going?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder and gives me nothing but a mischievous arched eyebrow. With a twist of the doorknob, he disappears into Duckworth’s bedroom. I stop right there, well aware of his reindeer game. It may’ve worked when I was ten, but I’m not letting him goad me into this one. Turning back to the garage, I hear the bedroom door close behind me. I take a full three steps before I once again stop. Who’m I kidding? Spinning back toward the bedroom, I rush toward the closed door.
“Charlie?” I whisper, knowing he won’t answer.
Sure enough, nothing comes back. Searching over my shoulder, I check the hallway just to be safe. All clear. Trying not to make a sound, I twist the doorknob and step inside. As the door shuts behind me, the lights are off, but thanks to some cheap vertical blinds on the window, the room still gets a bath of fading dusk light.
“Pretty spooky, huh?” Charlie asks. “Welcome to the sanctum sanctorum…”
It takes about four seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, it’s clear why Gillian checked this room herself. Like the living room and the office, Duckworth’s bedroom has the same unapologetic engineer’s fashion sense: a plain bed shoved against the dingy off-white wall, an unpainted wood nightstand holding a ratty old alarm clock, and to make sure every single piece seems randomly selected, an almond Formica dresser that looks like it was plucked from the back of a truck. But the closer I look, the more I realize there’s something else: A cream-colored comforter softens the bed, a vase of burgundy eucalyptus flourishes on top of the dresser, and in the corner, a Mondrian-styled painting leans against the wall, waiting to be hung. This room may’ve started as Duckworth’s—but now it’s all Gillian’s. So this is where she lives. A pang of guilt swirls through my gut. This is still her private space.
“C’mon, Charlie, let’s go…”
“Yeah… no