The lobby is cool and sterile, all marble and silence. Every sound—my sneakers squeaking, my bag shifting—feels like an intrusion. The woman at the reception desk doesn’t look up at first, too busy typing something into her keyboard. Her blonde hair is pulled into the kind of bun that only exists in movies about corporate sharks.
“Hi,” I start, voice cracking a little. “I’m looking for Mr. Marano.”
Her nails pause mid-click. She looks up, gaze sweeping over me like a scanner. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s—” I swallow hard, forcing myself to sound calm. “It’s urgent. I’m his client’s daughter. My father’s name is Matthew Ashford.”
The name seems to mean something. Her expression flickers for half a second before she recovers. “One moment.” She picks up the phone, murmurs something low, then listens. After amoment, she nods and hangs up. “I’m afraid Mr. Marano is out of the country.”
My stomach drops. “Out of the country?”
“Yes, on vacation,” she says, the word crisp and final. “He left a month ago. He isn’t expected back until—” she glances at her computer screen—“the eighteenth.”
“That’s in two weeks,” I whisper.
She gives a small, polite smile that isn’t a smile at all. “You can leave a message if you’d like.”
Two weeks. My father doesn’t have two weeks. The image of him cuffed to that hospital bed, bruised and furious, flashes in my mind like a warning.
“I really need to talk to him,” I say, hearing the desperation leak into my voice. “It’s about my father’s case. He said there was an accountant—someone who could help handle the trust—”
“I’m sorry.” She’s already shaking her head. “Mr. Marano handles all his clients personally. If you’d like to book an appointment, his calendar opens after he returns.”
“I don’t haveafter he returns,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Please. Just—someone. Anyone who can talk to me.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Miss Ashford, I understand this must be stressful, but there’s nothing I can do.”
My pulse is a hammer in my ears. I grip the edge of the counter, leaning forward. “You don’t understand. My father—he’s in prison. He’s hurt. If I don’t figure this out, something bad is going to happen.”
Something softens in her expression, but only barely. She lowers her voice, glancing around. “Listen. Between you and me, even if he were here, I doubt he’d take your meeting. Marano’s selective about who he helps. Especially now.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes flick nervously toward the elevator, as if worried someone might overhear. “Nothing. Just—try not to make trouble, okay?”
Trouble. That word feels like my entire life condensed into a single syllable.
I step back, heart pounding. My throat feels tight. “Thanks,” I manage, though it sounds hollow.
I turn before she can respond, walking fast toward the exit. The air outside feels heavier somehow, the city noise too loud after the antiseptic hush of the building. I lean against the stone wall beside the door, breathing hard.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
My father’s words echo,Find the accountant. Don’t screw this up.
I’m trying. But everyone keeps closing doors in my face.
I pull out my phone. Mr. Cadwell hasn’t replied to my last text. Jamie’s name sits in my messages, unread since this morning. Miles’s too. My fingers hover over both. Then I shove the phone back in my pocket.
No. I can’t keep dragging them into this. Whatever my father’s mixed up in, whatever Vince is hiding, it’s too big. Too dangerous.
A gust of wind cuts through the street, carrying exhaust and the faint smell of fried food from a cart nearby. My stomach twists, but I can’t tell if it’s hunger or dread.
Across the street, a man in a dark jacket leans against a lamppost, smoking. For a moment, I could swear he’s looking at me. Then he flicks his cigarette and walks off, disappearing into the crowd.
Paranoia. It’s probably just paranoia.
I call for another uber and head back to my apartment.
