A Warm Heart in Winter(77)

The human ended the call. Lowered the portable phone from his ear. And stood there like a robot waiting for instructions on whether he was cleaning the floor or about to do a load of laundry.

“Can I ask you something?” Qhuinn rolled his eyes at himself. “Stupid question. I could ask you for your bank accounts right now.”

“Do you need them? They’re on my computer upstairs.”

“Nah, I’m good. You paid me seven million for this place about a year ago.”

“I paid you? So this was your house.”

“My parents’, actually. How you likin’ the place?”

“It’s good. I like it fine. It needed updating.”

“Well, you’ve certainly left your mark on it.” Qhuinn indicated the phone, which was an old school cordless. “My question is, why you still got a landline, my guy? You don’t have the alarm wired into your cell? For like, the security feeds?”

The man’s shoulders drooped and he rolled his eyes. “My daughter threw my iPhone in the toilet tonight.”

“Bummer. How old is she?”

“Three.”

“Cool. Hey, do you know about the rice trick? You put the phone in a plastic baggie full of the stuff. It works. Or you could just buy another.”

“I’m going to get another one—”

“Ron?” a female voice called down. “Is someone there?”

As Qhuinn shook his head, “Ron” yelled back, “No. It’s just me on the phone with the alarm company. Go back to bed.”

“It’s cold,” came the petulant response. “You need to come back up here.”

Like good ol’ Ron was her electric blanket.

“Ron?” she repeated.

“Give me a minute, honey.” The tone was level, but the expression was tight, like he was gritting his molars. “I’ll be right there.”

“You know,” Qhuinn murmured, “I don’t envy your life, my guy.”

Ron took a deep breath and lowered his volume, too. “The three-year-old wants to sleep with us all the time. Susie had to get her mommy-tuck redone two weeks ago. And I think my partner is stealing from the firm.”

“Wow. When was the last time you got high?”

“Three hours ago. It’s the only way I can shut everything up.”

“So I was right.”

“About what?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Qhuinn shrugged. “Well, as much as I’ve liked talking to you here, Ronnie boy, I’ve got work to do. So you need to go upstairs and tell your wife again that everything’s fine. It’s nothing. And then you’re going into your office, and you’re going to delete the security feeds from tonight. Let’s say, from eleven forty-five to two a.m. After that? You go to sleep. Oh, and when that alarm technician shows up here, don’t be a fucking douche, ’kay? You got a lotta things going for you, there’s no reason to be rude.”

“Okay. I won’t be. Promise.”

“Attaboy, Ron.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome.”

The man nodded and turned away. As he shuffled off, he walked like a man whose lower back hurt. Or maybe it was all those miles running on those fifty-six-year-old knees.

A moment later, there were footfalls ascending the stairs, and then a door shutting. And then more footfalls overhead, walking into another part of the house.

Good ol’ Ron, following directions.

Bracing himself yet again, Qhuinn went out into the front hall, and found more of the same decor, the modern, black-and-white, strange-art theme like a rash on a body. Everywhere.

Pausing, he looked to the wall where the big-ass mirror had always hung, the one where guests could check their appearance when they arrived, or his parents could inspect their own whenever they left. Such mirrors were standard issue for glymera houses. Always right by the front entry.

No mirror anymore.

Now? It was a picture of four hubcaps. That probably cost more than a Lambo.

Unbelievable.

Qhuinn mounted the steps one at a time. Funny, when he’d thought about coming here, he’d imagined himself rushing through the rooms and the hallways, all scrambled and freaking out. Not it. Instead, he took his time, looking at the weird shit hanging along the staircase’s wall—he was pretty sure it was a school of taxidermied goldfish, except they had Barbie heads on them?

What a transformation.

And it was not hard to find a metaphor in all of it. When he’d been here with his parents, he’d assumed everything in the house, like his destiny, had been unalterable. Not true, as it turned out.

When he got to the head of the stairs, he looked to the right. Just more barren black-and-white floors, and stuff on the walls that could have been created by first-graders. Then he turned to the left. Luchas’s bedroom was all the way down at the far end. As the preferred son, he’d been given the second-best-appointed suite in the house, behind only the master and mistress’s.

God, his chest hurt, he thought as he started walking again.

When he got to his brother’s door, he glanced down at his feet to gather himself—only to have a chilling thought when he focused on the hall’s glossy tiles. Mother . . . fucker. That hiding space of his brother’s. When they’d redone his room, had they pulled up the floorboards, too—