He doesn’t turn away from me, empathetic eyes still locked on my face. “Not now, Henry.”
“There’s a glutton involved. I think you should come.”
Did he say glutton? What a weird word choice.
Gatsby rises instantly. All I can see of him now are his crisp dark pants and gleaming black shoes. “Who is it?”
“Slagle.”
“Damn it. Daisy, I have to go, but I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Please know that I—” He groans in frustration. “I’ll hurry back.”
He leaves me sitting in the middle of the ballroom, alone under the chandelier glow and surrounded by the crackling of the record player.
8
What the hell was that staff guy talking about? A glutton? There was plenty of food all over the estate—rich, decadent food, mountains of it. Why would Jay care if someone was overindulging?
He wouldn’t. Which means glutton has another meaning to him.
Behind the gleaming gables of the house, beyond the glittering rooms, beneath the mesmerizing music and the luscious food, there’s something else going on. There’s another layer, one I can nearly perceive, but not quite.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks and stand up. Now I’m curious as well as angry. Why all the secrecy? Why does Jay feel like a lost part of my soul and yet also a stranger? Why couldn’t my parents have been rich right where we were, instead of moving us all the way up into the mountains and away from my best friend, and why is he really here after all these years without a word?
I’m going to find answers. Tonight.
There’s a bathroom a couple doors down from the ballroom, so I check my makeup, irritated by the cherrywood gloss of the stalls and the way the whole place is redolent with the aroma of roses. The luxury taunts me, raising the same questions, over and over. Where did Jay get his money, and how?
What is he doing?
Sweeping back into the hallway, I join the flow of spiced, spangled people. When I studied in high school or at UNC, I sometimes had trouble seeing the whole picture; my brain tended to latch on to certain details and exclude others. And in this slurry of humans, certain body parts stand out in sharp focus. A hand laced with delicate tattoos cupping a wineglass. The flex of a man’s thick fingers. The tilt of a woman’s hip, the swell of a breast through gauzy fabric. The nape of a brown male neck, the smooth graze of his fade. A ring flashing on a waving hand. Purple-painted lips, pierced near the corner. A spray of feathers from an arched shoulder.
I wander past tables lined with guests, past the chink of plates and the haze of savory steam. Past tables holding tiny golden bags imprinted with J. G.—party favors for Jay’s guests. Hundreds of them.
I enjoy my family’s newfound wealth, but I’m still a poor girl at heart, and the excess of this party is starting to sicken me—like when I saw this thing on TV about one of the world’s richest people. I had to go for a run after watching that, to burn off all the churning anger.
This night was supposed to be fun—it has been fun. I could exert myself and find some people to hang out with, but I’m too tired to shine. Instead I go deeper into the house, taking the hallways less traveled, climbing the stairs less frequented. There’s a man guarding the stairway up to the third floor, but as I hesitate near him, he sighs and marches off to shoo away a couple who are humping urgently against the wall.
While he’s distracted, I hurry up the steps.
Jay’s room might be somewhere on this floor. And I might find something interesting if I poke around in it. But that would be wrong.
Maybe I don’t care.
The hallway is swathed in a dusky amber glow and its walls are deep red, contrasting beautifully with the dark hardwood floor. My fingers trail along the wall as I walk, and then they snag on a handle. I try a little downward pressure, but it resists. Locked tight.
The door is solid wood, heavy and glossy, with a carved decoration in its center, like a shield and vines. This isn’t your average door—it’s ponderous and ornate, important. Maybe it leads to Jay’s room, or Cody’s. Below the embellishment, it’s fitted with a similar panel to the one downstairs, which makes for a weird blend of old-fashioned style with modern tech.
On impulse I say, “Hestia, unlock the master bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” says a cool voice from the panel. “I didn’t understand that request.”
“Hestia, unlock Gatsby’s bedroom.”
“Okay,” says the panel, and there’s a click, not from this door, but from one a little further along the hall. When I approach and try that door’s handle, it turns easily. The door slips open, and I nudge it wider. Lamps flick on automatically inside the room, and my stomach ripples with apprehension and triumph.
The walls are the color of a cloudy day, with furniture and bedding in burgundy and smoky blue-gray. There’s a massive painting of a regal magnolia above the bed—Jay’s favorite tree. This has got to be his space.
Slowly I sidle into the room. A green glass bottle of Ralph Lauren Polo cologne stands on the dresser. With my eyes closed, I sniff at it—basil and cloves, leather and oak. Jay’s new scent.
The room is clean—I imagine Jay has someone to keep it clean for him—but it’s slightly untidy. A pair of sneakers are tumbled by the bed, some clothes are in a pile by the nightstand, a book lies upside down on the pillow. I touch the cover lightly—it’s called The Future Is Faster Than You Think, by Peter H. Diamandis and Steven Kotler. Something about converging technologies, business, and industry. Heady stuff.
On the wall over the dresser is a row of sketched portraits. I recognize a few thanks to my dad—Sir Humphry Davy, Marie Curie, Rosalind Franklin, Antoine Lavoisier, Alfred Nobel. Famous chemists and other scientists. So he’s still interested in chemistry. My dad will be happy to hear that. And I’m happy to see the Lego model of the periodic table on the wall—out of place in this classy room, but a clear sign that Jay is still Jay, underneath all the glamour.
There’s a laptop on the shiny cherrywood desk in the corner and several items in glass cases—collectibles maybe? But before I have a chance to see what Jay’s been collecting, a sound outside the room sends my heart to my toes. Instinctively I cringe into the corner behind the bedroom door.
A split second later, I recognize Cody’s voice. “What Gatsby and I do is our business. We’ve been over this, Wolfsheim. Just because you’re my progenitor doesn’t mean you get to boss me around. You’re not the bloody ruler of us all.” A pause. “You think you can decide that for everyone, just because you were the first? That’s bullshit. You need to back the hell off. No, I’m done. I’m done with all of this.”
There’s a gusty sigh that hitches suddenly.
Did Cody notice the open door of the bedroom?
Yes, he did. He’s coming in, stuffing his phone into his back pocket.
And he looks right at me, with a gaze so cutting I feel utterly naked. He’s wearing an electric-blue suit that seems to shimmer into purple when he moves. A long earring dangles from one ear, and his blue-black hair is spiked up.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice is a cool blade, deadly and sharp.
“Um…I’m waiting for Jay.”
