The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [99]
Realizing I see him, my brother spins around and pretends to recheck the kitchen cabinets. As Gillian’s sobs subside, he circles back toward us in the room.
“Who’s up for some TV?” Charlie interrupts. “We can—” He stops and suddenly acts surprised. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s okay,” Gillian says, sitting up straight and pulling herself together.
What’re you doing? I ask with a glance. I’m not sure if he’s jealous or just trying to calm her down, but even I have to admit, she can use the distraction.
“C’mon,” Charlie adds, putting on his nice-guy voice and waving us over to the TV. “No more heartache—time to relax with some mindless entertainment.”
She glances my way to check my reaction.
“Actually, it’s probably not a bad idea,” I agree. “Just to clean the mental palate…”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Charlie says as he cruises past us. Spring-boarding off the carpet, he lands on the couch with his feet already crossed on the coffee table. Gillian follows me to the living room, her fingers holding on to my hand.
“That’s it—there’s room for everyone—one big happy family,” Charlie teases as he grabs the remote. He clicks it at the TV, but nothing happens. Again, he clicks. Again, nothing.
“Did you hit Power?” I ask.
“No, I hit Mute—the sad thing is, I can still hear you.” Flipping the remote over, Charlie presses his thumb against the back and shoves open the battery compartment.
Raising an eyebrow, he looks up at Gillian. The party’s over. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I meant to put some new ones in.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Charlie, didn’t you say there were some in the closet?”
“Yeah,” he says coldly, still locked on Gillian. “There’s a whole toolbox of ’em. Every size imaginable.”
Running back and forth to the closet, I return with a handful of fresh double-As. Gillian’s already manually turned on the TV, but Charlie’s focused on the remote. He slides the batteries in and gives it another shot. Nothing happens.
“Maybe it’s broken.”
“In this house?” Gillian asks. “Dad fixed everything.”
“Here, give it here,” I say to Charlie as I sit on the edge of the coffee table. Time for the trick I used to use on my old Walkman. Pulling the batteries out of the back, I bring the remote up to my lips and blow a quick puff of air into the empty battery area. To my surprise, I hear a fast, fluttering sound—like when you blow hard against a blade of grass… or the edge of a sheet of paper.
Charlie’s head slowly cocks off-center. I know what he’s thinking.
“Maybe it is broken,” Gillian admits.
“No way,” Charlie insists. His eyes are wide with that hungry look on his face. In any other house, a broken remote is just that. But here… like Gillian said, Duckworth fixed everything. “Let me have it,” Charlie demands.
I’m already one step ahead. Cramming two fingers into the battery compartment, I start feeling around for whatever made that noise. Nothing there.
Charlie’s out of his seat, anxiously standing over me. “Break it open.”
Gillian shakes her head. “You really think he…”
“Break it!” he repeats.
With my fingers still inside, I yank hard on the back of the remote. It doesn’t give. Not enough leverage.
“Here,” Charlie says, tossing me a nearby pencil. I jam it into the battery area, and pull hard on the lever. There’s a loud crack… plastic snaps… and the entire back of the remote breaks off, flying straight into Gillian’s lap.
“Well blow me down,” Charlie says.
I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then I look down. Inside the remote, tacked down by two thick staples, is a sheet of paper folded up so small and tight, it has the length and width of a flattened cigarette. The Secret Service may’ve ripped through every other nook and cranny, but they certainly didn’t come to watch TV.
Gillian’s mouth gapes open.
“What is it?” Charlie asks.
I wedge the staples out with the tip of the pencil. With a yawn, the folded-up paper slowly fans open. The excitement hits so fast, I can barely…
“Open it!” Charlie shouts.
I unfold