The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [94]
I go to grab his arm, but as always, he’s too fast. “I’m serious, Charlie.”
“So am I,” he says, sidestepping around me. Moving in further, he searches the floor, the bed, and the rest of the furniture, hunting for context clues. Ten steps in, he stops, suddenly confused.
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You tell me. Where’s her life?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Her life, Ollie—clothes, photos, books, magazines—anything to fill in the picture. Take a look around. Besides the flowers and the art, there’s nothing else out.”
“Maybe she likes to keep things neat.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “Or maybe she’s—”
There’s a loud clunk as a door slams behind us. I spin around and realize it came from the hallway. Still, we know when we’ve overstayed our welcome. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand to check the time—and quickly cock my head to the side. That’s not an alarm clock. It’s an old—
“Eight-track player!” Charlie blurts, already excited. But as he squints through the darkness of the room, he notices that the slot that usually holds the 8-track looks a little wider than normal. At the edges, the silver-colored plastic is chipped away. Like someone cut it open, or made it bigger. Curious, he moves in, squatting down in front of it.
“Sombitch,” he whispers.
“What now?” Stepping behind him and trying to make the best of the fading light, I lean over his shoulder. He points down at the 8-track.
“I don’t get it” I tell him.
“Not the 8-track, Ollie. Here…” He points again. But what he points at isn’t the player. It’s the nightstand underneath. “Check out the dust,” he explains.
I angle my head just enough to see the thick layer of dust that blankets the top of the nightstand.
“It’s so perfect, you barely notice it,” Charlie says. “Like no one’s put anything on it, or even touched it… in months, even though it’s right next to her bed.” He turns back to me and tightens his gaze.
“What?”
“You tell me, Ollie. How could she not—”
“What’s this, a panty raid?” a female voice asks behind us.
Charlie whips around to face Gillian.
She flicks on the lights, making us squint to compensate. “What’re you doing in my room?”
40
Oh, this is yours?” Charlie asks. “We were just… just checking out this awesome 8-track.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder to point, but she doesn’t bother to look. Her dark eyes lock on his and don’t let go. She just stands there, arms crossed against her chest. I don’t blame her. We shouldn’t have been snooping through her stuff.
“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I offer. “I swear, we didn’t touch anything.” Locking on me, she puts me through the exact same test. But unlike Charlie, I don’t lie, fumble, or condescend. I give her the absolute truth and hope it’s enough. “I… I just wanted to learn more about you,” I add.
Perfect, Charlie smirks.
He thinks it’s an act, but in many ways, it’s the most honest thing I’ve said today. With everyone else after us, Gillian’s the only one who’s offered to help. As she stares me down, her arms are still crossed in front of her chest. The free spirit’s gone. And then… just like that… it’s back again.
“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” she asks as her shoulders bounce.
I smile a thank-you. Suspicious of the kindness, Charlie looks around like she’s talking to someone else.
“The 8-track,” she explains, moving excitedly toward the nightstand.
With a shove, she pushes my brother aside and sits on the bed, right next to me. She scoots back, then forward, then back a little more. “Wait’ll you see what he did to it,” she tells me eagerly. “Hit the Pause button.”
She’s got that same singsong laugh as before. Next to her, though, Charlie motions down low, where her bare toes are balled up like fists against the carpet.
See? Charlie scowls with that I-told-you-so look he usually reserves for Beth. But we both know Gillian’s no Beth.
Gillian flicks the power switch on and leans back on her hands. “Just hit Pause,” she adds.
Following