high up in the Himalayas, and while there was no reason to doubt him, I had no idea what connection Xavier Archer thought he had with the Himalayans. He was from the Bronx. Exotic in its own way, but slightly different.
The first mask was made of copper, an elongated devil’s face that leered at us as we entered the room. That one never failed to make me shiver. Halfway into the room some round-faced god of corroded burlwood blew visitors a wispy kiss through pursed lips. Yet another god attended the office door, this one wearing a pointed crown, crimson mouth open in a silent painted scream. If these weren’t enough to ward off all ill intent, the security camera staring from the corner with its cycloptic red eye would certainly finish the job.
A buzzer sounded next to the door. “Come in, ladies.” Then a clicking sound as the oak doors unlocked.
Xavier’s office was more in line with what you might expect from a gaming mogul. Gone were the spiritual hoohahs and totems. This room was all dark wood, oversized furniture, and chocolate walls. The coffered ceiling soared with smoked mirrors and crown molding, and hand-painted cabinetry held an impressive collection of dusty hardbound books, spines uncracked. The man himself was no less grand and imposing.
Xavier Archer has the sort of presence that rocks lesser humans back on their heels. He often waves his hand through the air like some European monarch, indicating that his subjects should sit. He did this with us, his daughters, and the only sign that this appointment was different from an acquisition merger or a meeting on quarterly earnings was his refusal to look up from the notes he was scribbling at his desk.
We sat in a pair of uncomfortable mahogany chairs. He’d changed little in the months since I’d last seen him; still built like a field ox beneath his custom Armani. His jaw was squarely defined, and he had one bushy brow that arched singularly across his forehead, which I knew he was sensitive about but refused to change. If you didn’t know any better you could mistake him for an aging linebacker. But everyone knew better. Xavier Archer made sure of that.
“Hello, Daddy,” my sister said when he finally looked up.
“Hello, Olivia darling.” A smile flashed as he set down his pen, then disappeared as he glanced at me. “Joanna.”
“Xavier,” I replied. He stared at me with his muddy eyes. I focused on his brow.
Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair. “You girls are probably wondering why I summoned you today.”
“Not at all.”
“First, Olivia,” he said, ignoring me. “I heard about your attempt to garner a position at Valhalla. How many times have I told you? I don’t want any daughter of mine working. What would people think?”
“What do they think now?” I muttered. They both pretended not to hear.
“I expect you to grow up, get married, have kids, get divorced, and live happily ever after.” He drummed his index fingers together. They looked like two sausages fighting. “Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Olivia said softly.
“What if she wants a job?” He looked at me and blinked, as if wondering why I was there. “What if she wants a job?” I repeated, louder.
“You mean like taking people’s pictures for free?” Xavier had never hidden his derision for what he considered my “wasteful” hobby. He scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
I couldn’t help myself—the defenses that automatically sprung up when I was around Xavier surrounded my sister as well. “I’m just saying maybe it’s not enough to expect her to be mere decoration for you or some future husband to wear upon his arm.”
Olivia put a hand on my arm. “Jo—”
“Olivia has a job. She’s my daughter.”
“Now. If that’s all cleared up?” Which meant, in his mind, it was, but I made a mental note to speak with Olivia about it later. “I heard there was a ruckus at Valhalla last night, Joanna. Care to explain?”
A ruckus? Is that what he called being attacked by a madman wielding a serrated poker? I smiled tightly. “Sure. I’ll explain. I saved a few dozen of your precious high rollers from being hacked to pieces by a homicidal maniac. A good thing too. It would have been hell on the carpet.”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
We glared at one another over the polished glasstop desk, each daring the other to say another word. We’d been this route before, and more than once. Xavier thought my sarcasm and sharp tongue were unbecoming, and that I should be more like Olivia; demure when his associates’ eyes lingered too long on her figure, sweet when an insult about her intelligence was flung over her head. Quiet even if she disagreed with anything he said.
I thought these expectations were asinine at the very least, bordering on deranged, so naturally I saved a great deal of my pent-up sarcasm for him.
Olivia gently cleared her throat beside me, causing me to break my stare.
“I understand the police had to be called in?” Of course that
“The police were already there. They’d been tracking the guy for months.” I didn’t mention my reunion with Ben.
“Because he’s killed before?”
“And he cheats at craps.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously at that. “Perhaps you should be more selective about whom you date in the future.”
Yeah, I’d kinda figured that one out for myself.
“You had something to tell us, Xavier?” I said, loving the way his teeth ground together when I used his first name.
“I do. Something of grave importance.” He looked at us expectantly, almost pleasantly. Odd, I thought, if speaking of something truly grave. “It affects you, Joanna, more than Olivia.”
Also odd that he would concern himself with me at all.
“I am not your real father.”
My breath left me in a rush. “Thank God.”
Olivia squeaked next to me.
“Excuse me?”
I cleared my throat. “I said, how odd.”
“Yes, I know it must come as a shock. I only recently found out myself.” He waved, indicating an open envelope on the corner of his desk. I picked it up, studied the type on the front, noted the lack of a return address or, indeed, any identifying mark, then removed the single sheet of paper enclosed within. Sure as shit, it said I wasn’t his daughter. It wasn’t signed.
“Got more proof than this?” I asked, waving the paper in his direction.
“I think there’s proof enough.” And he wasn’t talking about the letter, which meant he wanted it to be true.
I leaned back and let the note fall to the floor.
“But, Daddy—”
“Don’t worry, Olivia, dear. I had tests done this week. You and I share the same blood.”
I wanted to say she hadn’t looked terribly worried, nor did she appear all that relieved now, but Olivia was wringing her hands and suddenly speaking fast. “But—But we’re really sisters, right?” I looked at her. “Even if only…half sisters?”
Bless her. Sweet, sensitive Olivia. She was better than the rest of us put together. I put a hand on her arm, to let her know it didn’t matter either way.
“You share the same mother, yes.”
“She has a name,” I snapped, and his head jerked, reminding me again of a bull. “Zoe.”
In the nine years since she’d disappeared, without a note or a trace, Xavier had never, to my knowledge, spoken of my mother. I imagined it would be the same with me. Ten years from now, or ten minutes, he’d have blotted my existence from his memory. I too would be a ghost, wandering the hallways of this house; another name not to be spoken by the servants, though I doubted my memory would haunt anyone.
