Now, I’m alone. I stand idly by the window and stare out into this dreary, overcast day. I have a view of the Thames, but not much else, and even that famous river doesn’t really draw my attention. My thoughts are twisting and turning when Damien comes back to his office, flanked by two efficient-looking women carrying electronic tablets and taking diligent notes.
He dismisses the one on the left and continues the conversation with the remaining woman. She’s in her late fifties, tall and slim and with the look of someone very capable. He introduced me to her earlier as Ms. Ives, his permanent London assistant. As far as I can tell, one of her primary duties is acting as the liaison between Sofia’s residential treatment facility and Damien.
I’m still fuzzy on why such massive resources are devoted to Sofia’s mental health. I understand that she’s a friend, but as far as I know, Damien doesn’t assign assistants to keep tabs on all of his friends.
“Let me know the moment you get through to Alaine,” he says to her. Alaine is now a chef in Los Angeles, but since he and Sofia and Damien were tight in their youth, Damien is hoping that he’s heard from her. He moves behind his desk and glances down at the neat piles of paper. “And since I’m in town anyway, bring me the projections on the Newton project.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark.” She pauses in her exit to nod at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fairchild. I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t have been more pleasant.”
“A pleasure to meet you, too,” I say. I remain by the window until the door shuts behind her, then I move to Damien’s side. “Any luck?”
“Unfortunately, no. She checked herself out of the most recent rehab facility about a week ago, and no one’s heard from her since.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He grimaces. “It’s not the first time, but usually she turns up after a few days back in her apartment in St. Albans, drunk or stoned off her ass and ready to go get dried out again.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-nine. A year younger than me.”
I nod, digesting the information. “And she’s in rehab voluntarily? I mean, a judge didn’t put her there?”
“Sometimes I think it would be easier if one did,” he says flatly. “But no, it’s voluntary.”
“I see,” I say, but of course, I don’t. His desk is the size of the bathroom I share with Jamie, and made of chrome and glass and polished teak. I hop up on it, letting my legs dangle as I think about what he’s told me—and about what he hasn’t. “I get that you’re worried something happened to her,” I say. “What I don’t understand is why. She’s an adult and she checked out legitimately. Maybe she just decided to travel. To go hang with some other friends. They said she was almost dried out, right? Maybe she wants to prove to herself that she can operate sober on her own.”
I expect him to shoot me down. To tell me—rightfully—that I don’t know a thing about this girl. Instead, he seems to seriously consider my words.
“She may have done just that,” Damien says. “But if you suddenly couldn’t find Jamie, what would you do?”
Considering that happened not so very long ago, he knows exactly what I would do. Completely freak out. “Point taken, Mr. Stark.”
“There’s another reason, too,” he says. His voice is casual, his movements equally so as he moves to the window where I was standing only moments before. I join him, and we both look out over this industrial section of the city. But it’s not the view that has captured my attention. It’s the reflection of Damien’s face in the glass. His voice and manner may be casual; his expression is not.
I don’t say anything, and after a moment, he continues. “She and I had an agreement. I’d foot the bill, and she’d finish the treatments. I don’t like having my conditions ignored.”
I nod. Knowing what I know of Damien, what he is saying makes perfect sense. The only thing I don’t understand is why, and though I’m almost certain he will shut me down, I decide to voice the question. “Why are you paying for the treatment? And not just this one round. There’ve been others, too, right?”
The silence that hangs after my question seems unusually heavy, and I am not sure how much longer I can stand the weight of it bearing down upon me.
When he finally speaks, the words are soft, but there is a harshness to them that I don’t understand. “I’ve been paying Sofia’s way for as long as I’ve had the money to do so.”
My question is once again “Why?”—and it bursts past my lips before I can think better of it.
I am looking at him now, not at his reflection. But Damien is still looking through the glass, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing the city or the past. Is it me that he is standing beside? Or is Sofia next to him?
I squeeze my hands into fists, because I do not want to be jealous of a ghost, and yet I feel those tiny green seeds begin to sprout inside me.
Damien still hasn’t answered my question, and I think that perhaps I have gone too far. But then he finally speaks, and I am suddenly cold—chilled to the bone for Damien, and for the innocent girl who was his friend.
“She was Richter’s daughter,” Damien says. “And he didn’t leave her a dime.”
It takes me a minute to fully comprehend what he is saying. “Sofia is Richter’s daughter, but he left all of his money to you?”