“Pennsylvania,” said Croix without smiling. “Looking for Angelina?”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Yes. I have some information for her.”
“She’s not in yet.”
“She doesn’t live here?”
Croix turned and headed back down the hall. “She’ll be in soon.”
Charlotte watched her go.
That wasn’t what I asked.
Charlotte looked at the door again and thought she saw a shadow pass by the peephole on the inside.
“Fine,” she said as if she were calling out to Croix. “I’ll tell her I figured out where Siofra is when she gets back.”
If Angelina was lurking behind the door, she had to have heard her.
She wandered back down the hall and into the continental breakfast room to see if the coffee there tasted any better than the stuff made by her miniature coffee pot back in the room. It was, so she took a cup and a Danish to the lobby and found a seat by the concierge desk. Fifteen minutes later, Angelina appeared at the end of the hall leading to her bedroom with Harley tucked under her arm.
“I knew you were in there,” said Charlotte.
Angelina blinked at her, bleary-eyed. “It’s a little early for me.”
Harley squiggled, her eyes locked on Charlotte, begging for attention. Charlotte scratched her beneath her ear. “But you wanted to know what I figured out about Siofra?”
Angelina shook her head. “Not until I’ve had some coffee.” She shuffled into the breakfast room and then reappeared to take her seat behind the concierge desk.
“Okay. Hit me,” she said.
Charlotte crossed her arms against her chest. “Not until you take me to see my grandfather.”
Ha ha! Who has the power now?
She tried not to look smug.
Angelina tilted back her head and let her mouth hang open. “Come on. I got up early to hear this.”
“So take me to see him and then I’ll tell you.”
“It’s barely eight o’clock.”
“So? You said he’s in a coma. What does he care what time it is?”
“Excellent point.” Angelina lowered her chin again. “He would have appreciated the dark humor of that.”
She stood and headed toward the elevator. Charlotte jumped to her feet to follow.
Angelina pulled a key hanging from a chain from the nest of her bosom and used it to unlock the top floor elevator button. When the lift’s doors opened again, Charlotte found herself facing a hallway with only three doors along the opposite wall. Angelina knocked on the one directly across from the elevator and then let herself in with a code. The door featured the same keypad as Angelina’s own room.
The apartment inside was expansive. Someone had bashed away the walls to the individual hotel rooms to create one giant open-plan suite, featuring a large living room and kitchen to the right of the entrance. Style-wise, nothing appeared terribly modern or updated beyond the open-plan itself, but neither was it hopelessly out of date. Furniture, walls and floors were all variations of brown, black and white—the overall vibe felt too dark for Florida, but it didn’t seem unusual for a bachelor’s apartment. Charlotte guessed her grandfather didn’t have a current wife. A woman would have included a splash of color or warmth somewhere.
A woman much too young to be Mick’s wife and dressed in nurse’s scrubs sat on a black leather sofa. Her loose-fitting clothes were covered in tiny teddy bears wearing Santa hats, making her easily the most festive thing in the room. She looked up from her book as they entered.
“I’ve brought a visitor,” said Angelina. “You can stay. Martisha, this is Charlotte. You might see her again. She’s one of us.”
The woman smiled in Charlotte’s direction. “Ow yuh do?” she asked in a thick Jamaican accent.
Charlotte smiled back. “Nice to meet you.”
The woman nodded and returned to her reading.
Angelina led Charlotte through a partially opened door into a bedroom decorated in much the same style, but whatever bed might have once sat between the two dark wooden bedside tables had been replaced by a hospital bed complete with chrome side rails and an adjustable base. A thin, wiry man lay in the bed looking both tan and ashen at the same time. His salt-and-pepper hair had been cropped short. Charlotte could tell he’d been handsome, and still was, she supposed, for a seventy-plus-year-old man in a coma. Taped to his arms were tubes of various thicknesses and colors.
“There he is,” said Angelina, her usual steady expression softened by what looked to Charlotte to be genuine sadness. She motioned to Mick, urging Charlotte to get as close as she needed.
Charlotte moved to the edge of the bed and rested her fingers on the bed rails to peer down at Mick, unsure what to do now that she’d confirmed he existed.
“He’s not much of a conversationalist lately,” said Angelina, effectively breaking the ice.
“Can he hear anything?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. It doesn’t stop me from talking to him.”
Charlotte swallowed and turned her attention back to Mick.
What should I say?
“Hi, I’m not sure what to call you,” she said, her voice sounding weak. She wasn’t sure why she felt so moved by the quiet dignity of the man lying in the bed before her. She didn’t know him. Maybe he wasn’t even really related to her. But even if he was a total stranger, it was heartbreaking to see someone laid so low.
Angelina broke the following silence.
“He’d hate grandpa, I can tell you that,” she muttered.
“I wasn’t going to call him grandpa.”
“I’m just saying.”
Charlotte took a cleansing breath and tried again. “I’m your granddaughter, apparently. My mother was Maddie, I don’t know if you knew her or if she knew you at all. I’m not even entirely
