Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(4)

Zac gives my hand a squeeze and locks his impossibly green eyes on me. The concern is there—the love. I’d seen it before but now it has a name. Now I know. “Call me.”

I nod.

With one last look, he walks back to his car.

Then it’s just Mom and me. She looks over her shoulder and I can hear the voices drifting out from somewhere in the house. I recognize Dad’s baritone and not just because it’s familiar. It’s the loudest.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

She motions me inside.

I drop my backpack inside the foyer. We walk across the dark wood floor into the living room. I inch inside warily, toeing the Oriental rug.

Immediately, I see Dad, standing, pacing. His arms and hands are all movement as he talks. No Mitchell though. My gaze sweeps the cavernous room. I recognize my headmaster, Mr. Grayson. He rises when we enter. He’s never been to our house before, and it’s strange seeing him here and not on campus. As though the only place he belongs is at Everton.

And there’s another man. I’ve never seen him before. He’s dressed in a cheap suit. The cuffs stop well before his hairy wrists and the fit is all wrong, too loose at the shoulders. I’ve been taught to appreciate good suits. Dad wears Caraceni and Gucci. The stranger stays sitting, looking almost bored.

Mr. Grayson tucks one hand inside his suit pocket. He addresses Dad in a placating voice, “Patrick, listen to me. My hands are tied. There’s protocol—”

“Wasn’t there protocol with Mitchell, too?”

Mitchell graduated three years ago. He’s always been in trouble. Drugs. Failing grades. Nothing really improved when he started college, either. He came home first semester and currently lives in the guesthouse. Dad keeps pushing him to work at the bank. An “internship” he calls it. It sounds better than saying, “My son’s a teller at the bank I own.”

Hamilton Bank has been in my family since my greatgrandfather founded it. It looks like that legacy would die with Dad. Mitchell’s not cut out for it, and I have other plans.

Dad waves an arm wildly. “I wrote a check then. A fat donation and everything was fine. Why not this time? This is Davy! She’s a damned prodigy. She sings and has been playing God knows how many instruments since before kindergarten. . . . She even performed for the governor when she was nine!”

I blink. Whatever this is, it’s about me.

“This is beyond my control.” Mr. Grayson speaks evenly, like he’s rehearsed what to say.

Dad storms from the living room, passing me without a word.

Mr. Grayson notices me then. His entire demeanor changes. “Davy.” He claps his hand together in front of him. “How are you?” he asks slowly, like I might have trouble understanding.

“Fine, Mr. Grayson. How are you?”

“Good!” He nods enthusiastically, reminding me of a bobblehead. Weird.

His eyes, however, convey none of this cheer. They flit nervously over me and then around the room—as if sizing up all possible escape routes. Marking the French doors leading outside, he shifts his gaze to the man on the couch.

The headmaster motions to him. “This is Mr. Pollock.”

“Hello,” I greet. “Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t even respond. He looks me over with small, dark eyes set deeply beneath his eyebrows. His mouth loosens, the moist top lip curling in a vaguely threatening way. The thought seizes me: he doesn’t like me.

Ridiculous, of course. He doesn’t even know me. He’s a stranger. How could he have formed any opinion of me at all?

In the distance, I hear the slap of Dad’s returning footsteps. He enters the room breathlessly even though he didn’t walk far. Even though he plays raquetball every week and is in great shape. His face is flushed like he’s been out in the sun.

He brandishes his checkbook as he sinks into a chair. With his pen poised, he demands: “How much?”

Grayson exchanges a look with the stranger. He clears his throat, speaking almost gently now. “You don’t understand. She can’t come back tomorrow.”

I cut in. “Come back where? What’s going on?”

I move farther into the room. Grayson takes a notable step back, his gaze flying almost desperately to Pollock.

Staring down at his checkbook with fixed focus, Dad shouts, “How much?!”

I jump, my chest tight and uncomfortable. Prickles wash over the skin at the back of my neck. Dad never yells. He’s too dignified for that. Everything about this is wrong.

My stomach churns. I look at Mom. She hovers at the edge of the room, her face pale. Her mouth parts and she moistens her lips as though she’s going to speak, but nothing comes out.

Mr. Pollock rises from the couch, and I see just how short he is. His legs and torso appear almost the same length. His square hands brush over his bad suit. He takes a long, measuring look around our living room, his gaze skimming the furniture, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the heavy drapes, and grand piano in the corner that I’ve played ever since I sat down in front of it at age three.

Dad lifts his gaze now, watching Pollock with almost hatred. And something that resembles fear. Although obviously not. Patrick Hamilton fears nothing and no one. Certainly not this man with his beady eyes and ill-fitting suit.

Watching Dad, I marvel at the harsh glitter of his gaze . . . the heavy crash of his breath. A part of me wants to go to him and place a hand on his tightly bunched shoulder. For whatever reason. Maybe to just make me feel better. Because Dad like this freaks me out.